


The Angel of Hell's Kitchen

by violentlypan



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (kinda), AU: Superpowered Foggy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Foggy Nelson, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Needs A Hug, Foggy Can Fight, How Do I Tag, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, I tried to make it canon compliant but then i forgot the whole timeline, Identity Porn, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, More tags to be added, Not Canon Compliant, POV Foggy Nelson, Secret Identity, Vigilante Foggy, really that should've been the first tag, set mostly during s1, so now matt knows melvin potter before the whole elena cardenas thing, sorry - Freeform, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentlypan/pseuds/violentlypan
Summary: Foggy Nelson only knows three things about his powers:- He can fly.- He's using them to help people.And most importantly:- He can never, ever tell Matt.





	1. In Which Foggy Learns that Maybe Vigilante-ing is Hard

Foggy’s seven the first time it happens.

 

The swing lurches dangerously under him, and his hands leave the chains to either side of him. He tilts forward, heart already clawing into his throat, and for a second he realizes- the trick has gone too far. His daredevil fun is gonna get him hurt.

 

He feels himself topple forward off the swing, and cringes in anticipation.

 

And then he’s honest-to-god flying, genuinely soaring through the air as if gravity doesn’t apply to him. He hits the woodchips, and it takes a few running steps for his body- or whatever’s  _ in  _ his body- to recognize that he doesn’t want to be flying right now, please and thank you. 

 

He glances around. Candace is crying in her stroller; Theo is in a tree, ignoring him, and looking dramatically into the distance. Foggy’s parents are trying to get Candace to  _ stop crying, please, Candy, see, here’s the bottle.  _ Nobody’s noticed. Nobody saw his body lift into the sky as if by its own accord.

 

He sits down in the woodchips and promptly forgets about the incident in favor of investigating a small green caterpillar making its way up the metal of the swing set.

 

——-

 

He’s twelve the next time it happens, at a summer place they’d saved up to go to. Just enough for the week at a nice-ish hotel with a swimming pool. And he was standing on the first floor, leaning on the balcony, when someone yells, “LOOK OUT!” 

 

Foggy goes  _ flying _ , propelled by some unknown force hitting his mid-back- later he’d find out that it was a bag trolley some boys were playing on- and for a second, he hovers in midair. Then the spell is broken and he plummets into the pool below, soaking his favorite t-shirt.

 

And then a couple of people are pulling him out of the water. He’s dazed and dripping and shocked, and while people are concerned about  _ are you okay  _ and  _ do you need a doctor  _ and  _ did you hit anything, Franklin, are you okay?  _ he’s thinking, Holy shit. I just flew. 

 

And he thinks back to a very, very faint memory, one he thought he’d dreamt, of landing on woodchips unharmed after falling off a swing. 

 

——-

 

In high school is when it really gets going. Someone dares him to climb onto the roof, and he does- the jump from the school sign to the windows on the first floor seem a little (a lot) too graceful, and he’s on the roof before he knows it. Then he realizes he’s stuck, and it takes him twenty minutes to wriggle his way back down and claim the $20 they’d wagered on it. And that was just freshman year.

 

Sophomore year, a bully shoves him off the first floor landing. Aiming to hurt, not to kill, but he tumbles through the air instead of on the stairs. He hits the ground floor unharmed, and sits up dazedly while the bullies guffaw their way out.  _ What just happened? _ he wonders, getting up stiffly to get to his next class (hopefully before the bell, but he isn’t counting on it.)

 

Junior year he’s stressed from AP exams and sneaks out, just the once, to go to a party. Just once. And he gets so drunk he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he takes a flying jump onto the chandelier.

 

A  _ flying _ jump.

 

Then he crashes to the ground entirely across the room from the balcony he’d jumped from, considerably sobered by the pain, and wonders what the fuck he just did as people clap and whistle and cheer drunkenly. Someone offers him a beer. He takes it with a shaking hand.

 

It’s at this point he realizes, okay, maybe he should start getting this shit in check, because something supernatural was happening here and he didn’t really know what to think of it. He goes out late one night, sneaks from his window down to the ground floor, and rides his bike to the country club. It’s locked, but he’s never had any trouble climbing fences. 

 

Until tonight, it’s never occurred to him to wonder why.

 

He jumps to the roof of the club- it’s a simple task, and all he really does is bend his knees and let some weird instinct take over- and then he takes a deep breath. A few steps back. And runs to the edge of the roof.

 

He hits the ground hard, and limps his way home alongside the bike.

 

But something’s changed. He’s determined now. So he goes out once a week- every Friday, so he can claim he’s been _ taking up football with the other kids, Mom, that’s where the bruise came from but I’m fine _ \- and takes flying leaps from the country club roof. Every day, he hangs in the air for another second. 

 

He learns his way around the sky, learns to move and to let it buoy him up. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Gradually, he starts hitting the floor on his own terms, landing on his feet instead of on his arms or back. He  _ learns. _

 

By the end of the summer, he’s fantastic at it. He can fly loops around the columns holding up the awning to the club, and skim the surface of the (admittedly pretty small) pool. And he’s  _ killer  _ at aiming a jump for the water so he doesn’t break a bone.

 

He graduates. Gets into one of his top choices for college- say what you will about Foggy Nelson, but one thing he’s never been is stupid- and makes it through the years. He makes it to class early every day, and gains a reputation for knowing all the best ways to the roofs- mostly because it’s easy to get down without being spotted, but hard to climb up. 

 

He passes his LSATs with flying colors- no pun intended. His family cheers for him when he makes it into Columbia for law school. His mom ruffles his hair fondly, and says, “This is much better than being a butcher.”

 

He thinks that, in another life, maybe he would’ve made a good pilot.

 

\------

 

It’s there that he meets Matt Murdock. Matt is completely…  _ new. _ Spending time with him is like flying, except that Matty could never fly- he’s blind, and possibly the shyest, nicest, quietest person Foggy’s spent time around. Gradually, he gets him to uncurl from the shell he’s built. Because Matt Murdock is practically made of walls, and Foggy wants to fly over all of them but he’s a little scared what he’ll find on the other side. 

 

He thinks, maybe, if Matt was ever superpowered, they would be partners in crime. But Foggy’s not a vigilante. So instead they pledge to become partners in law. Together. They promise each other.  _ No secrets. _

 

Foggy lets his pinkie finger hook around Matt’s and ignores the guilt and fear seizing his heart between its fingers.  _ It’s not a secret, _ he tells himself.  _ If Matty asks, I’ll tell him. It’s not a secret. _

 

\------

 

“Could you imagine?” Matt asks, as they watch the footage of Captain America- well, really, Foggy watches and Matt listens to Foggy’s narration. “Could you imagine having superpowers?”

 

The question is solemn, has weight behind it. Matt’s been thinking about it a lot, Foggy knows. He pauses the old action movie. This deserves serious discussion, not laughing over the funny sound effects while they talk.

 

_ It’s a secret, _ he realizes, as he says, “No.” He tries his best to sound candid even if he’s not being candid at all. “I think if I had superpowers, though, I’d never do anything with them. What even would I do?”

 

Matt leans back into the couch as he says thoughtfully, “I don’t know. I feel like… there’s so much out there, you know? If I had superpowers, I think the best thing I could do is use them to keep people safe.”

 

“You’re right,” Foggy says, and he knows that he’s at least telling the truth when he says that. “I guess if I had superpowers, I shouldn’t, like, sit still. I guess I’d be out there fighting crime with the best of them.”   
  


He thinks for another second. “You’d probably do it in a heartbeat.”

 

“What?” Matt looks startled, caught unawares. Foggy hastily tries to clarify.

 

“Like- you’re so stupidly noble, all sacrificing-your-career-in-favor-of-the-greater-good or whatever. If you had superpowers, I wouldn’t be surprised if you went out to fight crime.”

 

“I’m blind. Imagine that! I’d probably just hurt myself.” Matt throws a set of jabs with just barely too much sloppiness to be real. “Wham! Bam! Take that, you villain! And while I’m at it, did I just hit you or the lamp?”

 

Foggy laughs, but the thing is, he knows something’s wrong. He’s taken it upon himself to look up Matt Murdock, so he knew he wasn’t getting into the same room as an ex-convict or something like that, and while flipping through articles-  _ Nine Year Old Child Saves Life, Is Blinded. Hero of Hell’s Kitchen- Young Boy Blind After Protecting Older Man From Truck-  _ he finds a short clipping of his dad. Jack Murdock, a boxer. He watches enough clips to know what a good jab should look like.

 

And Matt is a boxer’s son, which means that theoretically, he knows one too.

 

And that jab? That jab was  _ intentionally  _ sloppy. Not in a joking way, either; they read, to Foggy, like Matt wants to seem harmless.

 

He looks Matt Murdock up again, just in case. 

 

Still, nothing comes up.

 

He’s not sure he trusts Google anymore. But who knows? Matt’s blind, after all, and Foggy’s not exactly trained in any sort of martial art. The closest he’s been to a fight is when he got mugged and would’ve gotten stabbed had it not been for his-

 

For his superpowers.

 

Maybe he should look into the whole vigilante thing.

 

\-----

 

So it turns out being a vigilante is super,  _ super  _ illegal in New York, but that doesn’t really stop Foggy. He needs a costume, though. If he’s gonna try this for real. He has plenty of fabric, that’s not a question. He did theater in undergrad, and the costume department was woefully lacking, so he’d taught himself to sew and make clothes. 

 

He makes himself a list of requirements for a costume.

 

  * It has to be simple, both in color and design. He doesn’t want to make a name for himself accidentally. He just wants to try it for a night. (At least, that’s what he tells himself.)
  * It has to be dark, because he needs to hide in the night. He’s not exactly trained, after all, and the best thing when you’re at a disadvantage (or so countless movies have told him) is the element of surprise.
  * It has to cover his face. No eye holes. He’s a lawyer now, licensed and everything, and this? This is the kind of shit that can get him disbarred. Matt, too, even though he doesn’t know anything about what Foggy’s planning and probably never will.
  * Needs gloves. Leaving fingerprints everywhere is not ideal.



 

He’s already coming up with the design in his head when he realizes he needs another bullet point, because otherwise, he’s gonna have a plagiarism claim on his head.

 

  * Can’t be a ripoff of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.



 

With all of that in mind, he takes a pair of black tights- Marci’s, left behind at his place- and cuts off a long strip. He adds that to a piece of stretchy black fabric, then cuts eye holes in the fabric but not the tights. It looks good- like a solid piece of fabric, even though it’s not. 

 

Then he makes himself a hood from fleece, one that can cover his whole head, and stitches it to a black sleeveless t-shirt. He uses a pair of black cargo pants for the bottoms, and wraps knee pads and elbow pads underneath. Old black sneakers finish the ensemble, before he remembers the gloves. Those he has to make himself. 

 

Then he puts it all into a box, because it’s already midnight and he wants to be home before two AM, and he’s not sure he will be. Plus, he needs to stock up his medical kit.

 

\-----

 

It’s a Friday night when he goes out for the first time. The air is warm and breezeless, and he takes his time combing the streets.

 

He finds his first mugging only three blocks away. Foggy drops into the alley controlledly and promptly kicks a piece of scrap metal by accident. The mugger immediately whirls around, brandishing his knife further into the alley as the victim scrambles away. “Who’s there?” The man’s voice is thick and scared, and Foggy wonders for at least the third time why he’s doing this.

 

Now, he could fly out of the situation. The victim is safe. But instead, he picks up the metal- it’s a heavy pole, he finds, of the kind used to fly flags out a window- and advances towards the man.

 

“Don’t mug people,” he says in a harsh tone that comes out squeakier than he wanted it to.

 

The man stops, drops the defenses, and throws his head back to laugh. “You’re not the Devil, man! You’re one of those lookalikes who think they can go out, stoppin’ crime. Man, get outta here.”

 

“Don’t mug people,” Foggy repeats, regretting all of his life decisions up to and including this moment.

 

The man lashes out with the knife. Foggy ducks, covering his head with an arm. 

 

When he gets back up, the man is gone. His arm stings and burns, but he doesn’t want to look- he can already feel blood dripping from the cut, and looking will only make it more real. So instead he calls it a night and launches himself into the sky.

 

_ The vigilante thing is harder than he’d anticipated,  _ he thinks as he wraps gauze around his arm. He helped all of one person, and didn’t even manage to get the mugger. Plus, his arm probably needs stitches that he is  _ not  _ doing on himself, and he’s gonna have a wicked scar there for the rest of his life.

 

He throws the t-shirt into the closet.  _ Useless. _

 

\------

 

Matt knows, that Monday. Foggy can tell; his eyebrows knit together in concern as he steps through the office door. But he politely doesn’t mention it until Foggy bumps his arm against something and has to stifle the yelp that wants to escape his lips. Even still, a hiss escapes between his teeth.

 

“Foggy? Are you hurt?” Matt asks, glancing in his direction. His gaze is aimed at the coffee maker, but Foggy appreciates the effort.

 

“Ah, yeah,” he says. “A mugger caught me on Friday while I was out for a bit of exercise. Thought I was the Devil because I was wearing a black t-shirt.” It’s as close to the truth as he can tell Matt, but he doesn’t miss the way Matt’s mouth tightens at the name  _ Devil. _ Matt’s always had some strange thing about vigilante justice; despite their conversation a couple of weeks ago, Foggy’s not sure he’s actually in favor of it. To be fair, he’s not sure he likes it himself.

 

“You reported him to the police, right?” Matt looks worried, and Foggy can’t blame him.

 

“Yeah, of course,” he lies, because it completely slipped his mind.

 

“Fogs.” Matt’s voice is reproachful.

 

“I… forgot, mostly because I was in physical pain?”

 

“You at least went to the hospital, right?”

 

“Okay-  _ okay,  _ you don’t have any room to talk there,” Foggy says, poking a finger into Matt’s chest. Matt starts, and Foggy remembers he’s blind and didn’t see the finger coming. Whoops. “I’ve seen you literally try and walk off a broken leg the second year of law school.”

 

“I had an interview to be a summer associate!” Matt protests. “That I  _ didn’t get,  _ because I was off at the hospital!”

 

“It was a _broken leg,_ Matt. Besides, it’s only a small cut, anyway,” Foggy lies. It’s really not- it’s a proper gash, bleeding through the bandage for the fourth time, but he doesn’t want to worry him.

 

“You cleaned it out first?”

 

“Yeah,” Foggy answers. Truthfully. “And bandaged it up real good. You couldn’t even complain about it and you complain about  _ everything  _ medical, including  _ Tylenol. _ ”

 

They drop the subject after that in favor of their oncoming deposition, and Foggy’s  _ very  _ thankful.

 

\-----

 

It’s two weeks later that he hears sirens outside.

 

And he looks at the flagpole in the corner that he never put back, and he looks at his hands for a second.  _ If I were better-trained, _ he thinks to himself.  _ If I could fight. _

 

It hits him, then. Why doesn’t he fight? Why doesn’t he learn to fight?

 

He looks up places to learn martial arts nearby, and finds the dojo of a woman named Colleen Wing. It’s a small place, out of the way, and has a very good track record. It’s the perfect place for him.

 

He started lessons a week later. He knows Matt knows how to fight, but asking Matt to teach him would be… worrying, to Matt. Plus, Matt only knows boxing. Boxing’s one of those things Foggy’s pretty sure he can learn from the internet. And Matt's blind, so he doesn't want to have an unfair advantage. 

 

As he learns, the moves start coming more naturally to him. He catches the pencil Karen throws at his head and realizes then that his reflexes are far better than when he’d started. He’s lost weight, too- evidently, martial arts is fantastic for losing weight and is, in general, pretty decent cardio. Who knew?

 

By the end of six months, they have a new secretary (actually and for real!) The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has earned himself a few news articles, and Foggy can throw a half-decent punch. He’s still learning, but now he knows that he has to warm up before practicing. He knows how to stretch and how to duck and dodge and block. He even wheedled Ms. Wing into teaching him how to disarm opponents- “If I’m attacked in a back alleyway, they’re not going to be coming at me with their bare fists, Sensei.” 

 

He thinks it might be time for an upgrade.

 

So he buys fabric with some money his parents had given him for Christmas- silver and blue this time, because fuck that, even with the hood, people thought he was Daredevil. He needed a new color scheme.

 

And maybe he goes a little extra and uses some wire to make wings, but who’s gonna stop him? He stitches them onto the back and lines the white with silver.

 

Then, he glances down at the flagpole under his bed. Colleen had mentioned something called a bo staff a few times. He googles it, and finds that most of the moves are simple. He figures he can learn on the fly- ha ha-and takes the flagpole.

 

\-----

 

A week later, there’s a headline in the Bulletin. 

 

_ Angel of Hell’s Kitchen? Mysterious Masked Man Spotted Overhead! _

 

He runs into the Devil that night, who flinches the second he sees him. Then he gives him a once-over, and frowns.

 

“Nice outfit. Wings?”

 

“In my defense, I didn’t expect to be seen as an angel. Hope that doesn’t mean you have to fight me.”

 

“I’d win.” The smirk that accompanies the Devil’s words is wide and stretches across what’s visible, under the mask.

 

“Yeah, probably,” Foggy admits. 

 

“You could be disbarred for this.”

 

Foggy starts, then remembers all the newspaper clippings that claimed the Devil could read minds because he knew their names without asking. 

 

“You know me, then?” 

 

“Franklin P. Nelson, more commonly known as Foggy,” the vigilante says. “You help run a law firm with your partner Matt Murdock. You’re a very successful lawyer.”   
  


He blinked. “Clearly, you don’t know me. I get paid in chickens.”

 

“Maybe so, but you win 80% of your cases.”

 

“That’s a level of detail you  _ probably  _ shouldn’t know about me,” Foggy says, mildly disturbed. “Should I be surprised that the Devil is a stalker?”

 

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen only flashes him a grin. “I was looking for you.”   
  


“Why?” he asks. “I would’ve thought you’d be all territorial over the Kitchen.”

 

“More vigilantes means less crime,” the Devil says with a half-shrug. “I was looking for you because you’re getting hurt. You need training and a better suit. I’m getting a suit made for me right now, actually; afterward, we can get you one too.”

 

“We?”

 

“Yeah, there’s a man named Melvin Potter who’s making my suit in exchange for protection. I reckon if you promise to protect his girlfriend, too, he’ll make you a suit.” His tone is matter-of-fact, like  _ this is just how it is, being a vigilante, didn’t you know?  _ “And it’s clear you’ve only been training for a few months. You’re sloppy at best. I’ll teach you.”   
  


“What?” Foggy asks, because he was really not prepared for the Devil to be a mentor figure. “Like, what, a Mr. Miyagi or some shit, teach me kickboxing?”

 

“No. I was thinking we could work together- coordinate our efforts. I always know what’s happening in the Kitchen, and I’ll teach you things as they’re needed. My sources tell me you fight with a staff?”

 

“It’s an old flagpole,” Foggy tells him. “But it’s better than my fists.”

 

The Devil nods. “And you can fly.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.” The Devil nods decisively, and Foggy’s wonders what the hell he just got himself into. “Meet me at Fogwell’s. Midnight, a week from today.”

 

“Yeah. Sure. Do you have a name I can call you?”

 

The Devil hesitates a long moment. “Mike,” he says after a second. “Call me Mike.”

 

Then Mike takes a running start and flings himself off the edge of the building, so fast Foggy wonders if Mike can fly too.


	2. In Which Foggy Tries His Best But Doesn't Always Succeed

Foggy tries to convince himself that Mike is really actually kind of creepy and maybe he shouldn’t go. After all, the guy knows his name, Matt’s name, and even Foggy’s  _ case record. _ Maybe he can read minds? Who’s to keep this Mike guy from creeping on Matt or Karen? He doesn’t like it; it’s fishy.

 

He tells himself not to go. But somehow, the next Friday, he finds himself atop Fogwell’s Gym, the flagpole in hand, waiting for the Devil.

 

He doesn’t wait long; Mike’s there in a matter of minutes, and Foggy can see a rip in the suit’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he starts, concernedly. 

 

(Really, he shouldn’t be this concerned for a stranger, but… dammit, Mike’s hurt and Foggy can’t just let that be.)

 

“Peachy,” Mike answers, rubbing the shoulder. “It didn’t hit me, just ripped the suit.”

 

“That’s good,” Foggy says. “What are we looking at?”    
  


Mike pauses. “The Russian Gang has become far more active recently, and they seem to be trying to buy out city blocks. I’m not sure why.”   
  


Foggy knows about this. He knows because Elena Cardenas appeared at his workplace that morning, scared. “So we’re going to find information on them?”

 

The Devil dips his head in affirmation. “Yes- there are a few places the mob is more active. I’m sure you know the streets?”

 

It’s phrased as a question, but it’s not really one. “Of course.” Of course he knows the streets; they’re the same goddamn streets every night, with the same muggers night after night. Matt’s blind and  _ he  _ probably knows what streets the mob is active on. Granted, Matt keeps up to date with the news far more than Foggy does.

 

Mike smiles- it’s something Foggy’s never seen before on the Devil, a real smile. It looks good. Not, like, in a gay way, though. “I’ll take south, you take north? Meet back here tomorrow, discuss results?”

 

Foggy nods. He’s dazed but he doesn’t know why. “Yeah, sounds good.”

 

The Devil takes off, and Foggy waits until he can’t see the black figure leaping across rooftops anymore before letting the wind carry him in the other direction. He’s going to have to put on concealer before Saturday, but, well, needs must.

 

\-----

 

The office mood Monday is quieter than usual. Calmer; and for once, they’re actually doing work on a client. The Cardenas case is difficult, and Foggy is tired from taking care of the streets the night before. They hadn’t gotten  _ anywhere  _ yesterday, because Matt was jittery and looked like he was about to fall over. Foggy knows something about it now, so he tells Matt to take the day off. He’d spent the entire rest of the day- or close to it- working on translating for Mrs. C, because Karen was out doing Ambiguous Things that she wouldn’t tell him about.

 

But it doesn’t take long for him to find that Tully is being represented by the sharks at Landman and Zack, which is-

 

“Great,” he spits. “Just  _ great. _ ”

 

“I’m really sorry, Foggy.” And Matt  _ does  _ looks sorry; he looks absolutely exhausted, too, and there’s a black eye over one half of his face. “I’m in no shape to talk to them; mind if I run down to the precinct instead, find something to use against Tully?”

  
Foggy groans. “Come on, Matt, don’t leave me to the sharks! Look at me, I’m too shark-foody for that.”

 

“You can take Karen,” Matt offers. 

 

“Uh, okay, if she wants to?” Foggy casts a sideways glance at Karen; she looks amused by the conversation happening.

 

“Why not?” she shrugs. “I’ve never seen sharks feed up close before. Free zoo visit, I guess.”

 

Foggy groans again, and makes a few more excuses, but goes anyway. Marci’s there, of  _ course  _ she is, because isn’t this just his lucky day? They snap retorts back and forth; say what you want about Foggy’s late-night street cleaning, but it has made him  _ remorseless  _ when delivering stinging remarks. 

 

As they stand to leave, Foggy jars his bruised ribs and as soon as he steps out the door, he begs off for the rest of the day. Karen tells him to take the next off, too; he doesn’t want to accept, that means she’ll be alone to visit Mrs. Cardenas, but then he jars his ribs again and decides Karen might have a point. He’d promised the Devil they could meet, after all, and if he’s doubled over in pain that might put a damper on that. Plus, he has lessons at the dojo today.

 

He downs two Advils, washes it down with some apple juice (the Internet says it raises electrolytes) and spends a moment wiping his flagpole down. He really needs to get a better weapon, he knows, but… he’s emotionally attached now, dammit. 

 

His lessons go well. Ms. Wing has been shooting him Knowing Looks for the past three weeks; he doesn’t entirely blame her, to be honest. It must be obvious to her what he’s doing, but she hasn’t said anything about it yet. He’s extra careful with some of the moves, but it does help the stiffness. Maybe he should start doing cooldowns after he flies. 

 

He feels confident tonight, actually. Like he can take on the world. Mike invites him to come fight some Russians with him- teaches him how to disarm a gun before they leave- and they go. Foggy’s faster, but he slows to let Mike catch up a little. They’ve fallen into a pleasant rhythm working together, and. Well. Maybe it won’t be all bad.

 

They manage to disarm a bomb. They congratulate themselves and head back for the night.

 

They don’t realize there are three more.

 

\-----

 

It’s two hours later, after Foggy has shed the suit and is comfortably in bed, that he gets the call.

 

“Mr. Nelson? A woman was just admitted to Metro General and she’s asking for you by name. She won’t tell us hers or her family members’. No wallet on her.”

 

Well, shit. 

 

He knows who it is- Karen’s always been too secretive for her own good. 

 

But as he closes the phone he sees the news about the bombings; he instead calls Matt, gets him to pick Karen up. Foggy’s got work to do. 

 

He barrels out the fire escape in his suit- it’s torn and he hadn’t stitched it back up yet, and his ribs ache with every step and he’s pretty sure he has bruises covering his arms and chest, but it doesn’t matter anymore. His city’s in danger. No north-south boundaries anymore. Now he just has to help emergency services.

 

He flies rubble off survivors, helps emergency services until the morning sun peeks over the horizon. Even then, he doesn’t stop; he’s just more cautious about it. He can see people filming, and wants to scream at them.  _ Why aren’t you helping?! _

 

He clears one site of survivors. Wishes he had the Devil with him; he doesn’t know Mike’s whole skill set yet, but he always knows how many people are there. They’ll make another pass later; he knows the Devil will come when he calls, if he does it in the right spots.

 

Foggy moves on. The work is strenuous and physical, and before long he’s sweating  _ bad. _ He knows the suit reeks, and he can feel his hands developing blisters from the chunks of concrete he’s dragging off people. His flagpole’s been used as a lever so many times now Foggy’s worried it has a permanent bend in it. But every time he sees a dusty face emerge from the rubble it’s worth it.

 

He works until the sun grows hot in the sky and his stomach’s pangs of hunger become a distraction. It’s nearly three p.m, and he hasn’t stopped for lunch or breakfast or anything. He feels guilty-  _ really, really  _ guilty- about leaving Karen behind at the hospital. But Matt knows Foggy’s okay. And from the sounds of things, Karen was conscious and talking; Foggy isn’t too concerned.

 

But he feels dizzy and lightheaded, and doesn’t turn down the volunteer who offers him a drink of water. He drinks the whole bottle, and feels sick afterward.  _ Who would do this?  _ He doesn’t think he can bear to leave the victims behind. 

 

So instead he goes home for an hour, and only an hour. Has lots and  _ lots  _ of food- whoa, when did he get so hungry?- and has several more drinks of water. He paces himself, this time. Vomiting is generally not good. He rubs some deodorant on the suit. He’ll wash it later; it’s filthy now, covered in sweat and dust and dirt and blood (that he’s resolutely not thinking about, thanks.) It has tiny rips in the hands, and he dons the black gloves he wore when he started over the top of his suit. His palms immediately get about twelve times sweatier. He ignores them. Picks up his slightly-bent flagpole and goes back out.

 

\-----

 

There’s no question about where he’s been when he finally,  _ finally  _ gets to Karen’s bedside that night. He has to leave again later, though, he knows. She cocks an eyebrow at him, her face smushed flat against the bed. He says simply, “I tried to help them move rubble,” and that’s it. They listen as Mike is accused on public television.

 

“Do you think he did it?” Karen asks; every word is measured carefully, and Foggy understands it’s a serious question.

 

“No. I… no, there’s no way. He’s just one guy. How would he have set off four bombs simultaneously?”

 

She looks askance at him. “There were only three bombs.”   
  


Right. Of course. Because they’d dismantled the other ones. “Ah- right, sorry. I’m just… out of it today. And the media’s not really helping, honestly, just giving me a migraine.”   
  


“You can take some of my pain meds,” she says wryly. 

 

“Nah, your back looks like you tried to become a porcupine and someone botched the surgery,” Foggy says; apparently, Karen had taken quite a bit of glass shrapnel for Elena, tackled her to the floor and everything. Elena was unharmed; Karen was pretty cut up. “But seriously, no, there’s no way.”   
  


“Well…” The tension returns, “They’re saying the Angel’s been teaming up with him recently.”

 

Foggy squints at her. Then he points at the TV wordlessly, where there’s footage of the Angel-  _ Foggy-  _ hauling rubble. “If anything, that’s just more evidence  _ against  _ it.”

 

“You’re right,” Karen sighed. “I don’t know why I’m trying to play devil’s advocate.”

 

There’s a pause, and then they both break out into giggles. “ _ Devil’s  _ advocate!” Foggy repeats.    
  


“He saved my life and this is how I’m repaying him,” Karen snorts.

 

“Wait, wait, he did  _ what?” _ Foggy sobers instantly.

 

“I, uh, some guy attacked me in my apartment.” She’s not telling him the whole truth, Foggy can tell, but he doesn’t press. “Bam, just like that- man in a mask is tackling him out the window. I watched the whole fight. It was impressive.”

 

“Well, anyone who saves you is good enough for me,” Foggy says. He’s still worried about Karen- when was this? Could he have saved her, instead of the Devil? 

 

(Okay, that last thought is kind of unfair, but they had different personalities, really. The Devil’s opinion was that the criminals needed to be punished. Foggy’s opinion was that the victims needed to be saved. Mike growled at the victims to go to the hospital or the Fifteenth; Foggy helped them to their feet and let them cry on his shoulder. On the other hand, Foggy also let the criminals go. Mike… left them unconscious and waiting for the police.)

 

(So they were… pretty different, all told.)

 

Karen offers a smile. “It was pretty cool, honestly. I mean, of course, it was terrifying- I’m still a little terrified and it’s been a month-” she gives a self-deprecating little laugh- “but the way he moved- like he knew what the other guy was gonna do an instant beforehand.”   
  


Foggy frowns. “You think he can read minds?” It’s not implausible. He always knows when Foggy’s lying or scared or angry, or when he’s had a bad day. It’s creepy. Foggy’s still not entirely sure how he feels about that part.

 

“Who knows?” she says cryptically, and Foggy agrees.

 

\-----

 

Foggy goes back out, that night. He stands atop the old gym and says loudly into the night, “Devil- Mike- if you’re out there, we gotta work together again, we gotta fix this.”

 

He stands motionless for a minute, which stretches to five before the Devil appears. He’s breathing hard, and he’s got a truly impressive split lip. “Foggy.”

 

“Hey.” He feels awkward for some reason. “I was thinking we could swing by the sites again. See if we can recover bodies or find any survivors.”

 

Mike’s hands ball themselves into fists; Foggy can see the fabric being pulled. “There won’t be any. It’s been too long.”

 

“Maybe you’re right,” Foggy agrees- one of the first lessons he’d learned in law school, let the other person think you agree with them. “But it’ll do wonders for your public image. You know everyone thinks-”   
  


“Thinks I set off the bombs,” the Devil spits. “I know.”

 

“Come on,” Foggy pleads. “It’ll make me feel better.”

 

Mike growls again, kicks the pebbles beneath them; they go flying in a spray across the rooftop. None of it hits Foggy, thankfully enough. One pings against his fake wing, though. He waits patiently as the Devil has a mini-temper tantrum.

 

Finally, he stops taking it out on pebbles. “Fine,” he agrees. “Lead on, oh paragon of truth and justice.”

 

\-----

 

As it happens, they  _ do  _ find survivors- a pair of puppies, hiding in the rubble, and a mother still curled around her child and sobbing. Mike helps Foggy unearth bodies- he tries his best not to get sick at the sight. He lets himself be unsuccessful with that a few times and runs off to throw up in an alley, because he’s only human (probably.) It’s not a pleasant sight. 

 

They do get caught on camera helping. It’s not much, and it probably won’t be perfect for Foggy’s reputation or enough to clear Mike’s name, but it’s something. And Mike doesn’t seem to mind the work, so he doesn’t have to be nervous about it- probably.

 

The pair finish late at night, tired and aching, but Foggy feels like he’s done something good for the community.

 

So it shouldn’t be that shocking to Mike that Foggy pulls him into a hug when they’re done. “Thank you,” he says.    
  


The Devil is… stiff in his arms. Has nobody ever told this guy that some people have, like, bodies made out of flesh? Because this guy is built like a fucking brick wall, and he’s moving (or rather not moving) like one. “Uh,” the Devil says eloquently. “Yeah.”   
  


Foggy smiles into the Devil’s shoulder.

 

“But I do have to get back,” Mike continues. “So, uh, maybe…?”

 

“Oh!” Foggy lets go, feeling sheepish. “Oh, uh, yeah. You. You can go. I’m just- I’m just gonna check some stuff out for now.”   
  


He does, in fact, “check some stuff out,” after watching Mike climb a building at inhuman speeds. (He swears he doesn’t mean to check out some of Mike’s… assets. It’s  _ very  _ hard not to.) And by “stuff,” he means Karen, because Karen’s been jumpy recently. Well, no, she’s been jumpy ever since there was a literal attempt on her life in a jail cell, which is. Understandable.

 

So he flies over to the hospital and hovers outside her window inconspicuously. She seems like she’s trying to sleep, which is. Good. It’s good. Foggy still winces when he sees the gauze that turns her back into a veritable patchwork, though. 

 

Foggy needs to track down the bastards responsible, now. He’s surprised at his own anger- he’s usually pretty relaxed- but the bombings by the Russians just  _ piss him off. _

 

As he watched- totally not being stalkery- he notices a man he’s never seen before walk in. Karen seems to go a little stiffer, and Foggy furrows his eyebrows. Who  _ is  _ this guy? He looks older, worn out. Foggy doubts he can do any serious damage. Still, he stays close. 

 

They exchange words; Foggy presses his ear to the wall, but he can’t hear anything. He wishes Mike was here.

 

Still, though, they seem to be having a pretty civil discussion. Foggy feels his concern lessen as they talk; Karen smiles at multiple points in their conversation, which means it can’t be all that bad. 

 

He tells himself he’ll ask Karen about it tomorrow. Then he flies back up to the hospital roof and asks himself how the hell he’s gonna-

 

“Hey!”

 

Foggy whips around, feeling the tug of his wings on his back as he does. “What-”

 

There’s a kid there, in a red hoodie with blue leggings. A large spider symbol is on his chest; a pair of chunky, lensed eyes on a red mask under the hood.

 

“You’re the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen, right?” the kid asks excitedly. Foggy thinks he looks familiar, and tries to remember where he’s seen the kid.

 

“You’re that… uh, what are they calling you? Man-Spider? Spidey guy. From Queens.”

 

“Holy  _ shit, _ the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen knows my name,” the kid breathes. “Uh- it’s Spider-Man. Not- not Man-Spider.”

 

“Cool,” Foggy says. “Why’re you here? Not that your company isn’t delighting, I’m just confused.”

 

“I saw you!” the kid says brightly. “And I had to say hi!!!! You’re like, a vigilante pioneer or something. Don’t you usually work with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”   


  
_ Don’t get attached, _ he tells himself,  _ to people you meet in the field. _ It’s too late, though, because this is a Literal Child who will probably need help at some point. “Uh. Yeah, I do, but he’s gone home for the night. I’m just checking up on someone right now.”

 

“Ah, cool! Is it true you two are, like, dating? Because you would be  _ super  _ cute together and if you’re not it’s really a shame.”

 

Foggy chokes on his own spit. Once he’s done coughing, he squints at the kid. Hard.

 

“Are we  _ what??  _ I- no, we’re just- we’re just friends.” He’s caught off guard by the question, enough that it gives him another question to ask himself-  _ does he want them to be dating? _

 

“Oh. Sorry I asked,” the kid apologizes. Then his eyes furrow- Foggy can see their outline under the mask. “Wait, do you have something against guys dating? Because-”

 

“No, no no no! It’s not like that,” Foggy says. “It’s just- the Devil really doesn’t seem like the kind of person who really holds down a steady relationship.” Then, just to get payback for that question: “Aren’t you, like, twelve?”

 

“I’m  _ fourteen, _ ” the kid says, offended, before inhaling sharply. “Uh- that is to say, uh, I’m in grade. Fourteen. Because I’m twenty years old.”

 

Foggy can’t help it- he grins. “Dude, you are the worst liar. I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt for plausible deniability, but damn, kid, don’t you have school tomorrow?” It’s true. It’s a Wednesday night, which is not good for superhero-ing. “I mean- maybe I’m being hypocritical, ‘cause I have work tomorrow, but kiddo, you gotta get that education.”

 

The kid shrugs. “I finished all my homework.”

 

Foggy sits down on the roof. “So why’s a kid like you out here being a vigilante?”

 

\-----

 

He does, in fact, ask about it the next day at work. 

 

“Karen, how are you doing?” he asks, faux-casually, as they hang out in the break room; she’s on her phone, Matt’s eating lunch (stupid healthy food as always) and Foggy’s trying to make a castle out of binder clips. They have  _ lots  _ of empty time with no clients, so. “Your back doing better? Feeling happier out of the hospital? Made any new friends lately?”

 

Karen narrows her eyes at him as she says, “Yes, yes, and no, not really. I’m too busy making sure you guys don’t get yourselves killed by rejected clients or go too far into the red.”   
  


As she says that, there’s a buzz from Foggy’s pocket and he sets down the clip to read the text message. It’s from Karen, and verbally he responds, “You know what? Fair enough,” as he reads the text.

 

_ KP: How do you know about Ben _

 

_ FN: i dont really _

 

_ FN: saw u talking 2 sum old dude n got curious _

 

Foggy wonders for a moment if he should let Karen know about his, ah, secret. But- would she even believe him if he did? He could imagine it now- “Yeah so I know about that ‘cause I’m the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen,” and then Karen would burst into laughter ‘cause he’s a fucking lawyer and not a vigilante, or just get more suspicious.

 

_ KP: Is everything in my life your business? _

 

Whoa, touchy. He glanced up over the phone and saw her eyes narrowed in anger, chewing on her lip as she looked down at her own phone. Okay, so she was Super Suspicious now. He should definitely be backing out now.

 

_ FN: srry srry _

 

_ FN: was just curious, not tryn 2 pry _

 

_ KP: Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped _

 

_ FN: its ok _

 

_ FN: i was being invasive n u have evry rite 2 be angry _

 

_ KP: You text like a drunk elephant _

 

_ KP: Or like someone really trying to act like a teenager like in one of those cringy teen films _

 

_ FN: Dear Karen, _

_ Hi! Thanks for getting in touch. I’ve written this text for the purposes of informing you that your position and (frankly negligible) paycheck have been terminated as of now.  _

_ Thanks,  _

_ Franklin P. Nelson, Esquire _

 

Karen does that funny little nose-exhale thing she does sometimes instead of laughing, and Foggy grins. 

 

_ KP: Dear Foggy, _

_ Thank you for your response. Unfortunately, I will have to reject your termination. We have received many termination requests recently, and we cannot accept all of them. We wish you luck in future termination requests. I look forward to seeing you in these coming weeks. _

_ Best, _

_ Karen Page _

 

“Did you just send me a form rejection letter in response to me fake-firing you?!” Foggy exclaims aloud, and Matt looks up from whatever weird quinoa bowl he’s eating. 

 

“What?”   
  


“He fired me for telling him that he texted like a drunk elephant, so I  _ informed  _ him that I had to reject his termination request.”

 

“Does it count as firing if she’s not getting paid?” Matt wonders.

 

“I’m getting paid in the fantastic company I get to keep,” Karen offers. “And in bosses that don’t hire people to kill me.”

 

It’s an olive leaf for Foggy’s invasion of her privacy.

 

“Aww, you do care!” 

 

Foggy takes it.

 

(But he’d be lying if he says he doesn’t ask the Devil, later, if he knows of a Ben, an older black man, wears glasses.)

 

(The Devil does. A reporter- Ben Urich.)

 

( _Now_ , he thinks, _they’re getting somewhere_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRYING TO KEEP THIS STUFF CANON COMPLIANT IS HARD, Y'ALL. I realized after the fact that Matt had met Melvin /after/ S1E!0, and I didn't want Foggy to Know who he was, so.
> 
> Mini-AU inside the bigger AU, where Matt saved Melvin from a mugger and Melvin offers to make a new suit. (Whoa, lots of M's in that sentence!)
> 
> As always, I substitute your comments and kudos for caffeine- they keep me excited about my work and they keep me going! <3


	3. In Which Foggy Finds Out (And Isn't Gay, No Really, He's Not Gay)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick TW for abuse mention. Nothing major, but this covers some of the events of S1E07 "Stick," which of course kind of warrants the mention. Stick is a dick, y'all.

It’s a few days before Foggy sees the Devil again.

 

And when he does, the man looks  _ terrible.  _ They don’t even meet up in the usual spot atop the gym; Foggy just stumbles across him in a parking garage, arguing with an old man. Like, a  _ seriously  _ old man. Who’s blind. (Huh.)

 

“-and some kind of a  _ mad bomber, _ ” the older guy was saying.

 

“Yeah, I’m taking care of it,” Mike snaps.

 

“An old guy just lit you up. You ain’t takin care of shit,” the guy snaps back. “Ooh, look, your  _ boyfriend’s  _ here. Come on out, Angel.”

 

Foggy starts. He’d been hiding in the rafters; how the hell-? He obligingly hops down to land next to Mike, who’s… pale. Shaky.  _ Terrified. _ Foggy had never seen him even nervous, much less terrified. Foggy starts getting scared, too.  _ What can scare the Devil? _

 

“Angel, you need to go,” the Devil snarls. He stepped between Foggy and the older guy.

 

_ That’s excessive, _ Foggy thinks,  _ the guy’s old and… well, maybe not blind? _

 

“Aww, what’s wrong, Ma-”

 

Mike’s leg snaps out at the man’s ribs, fast as a flashbang, and the old man catches it. Foggy’s starting to reevaluate his judgment of blind people. “Oh, does he not know your  _ secret identity?  _ Boo fucking hoo, get over it.”

 

“Let go of my leg,” Mike growls. “Angel,  _ go.” _

 

He won’t, not while the Devil’s in danger. “No. Who the hell are you and why do you think you can  _ threaten  _ him?”

 

“That’s a can of worms you don’t want to open, boy,” the man says. “But you can call me Stick.”

 

“That’s not a real name,” Foggy scoffs, because if there’s one thing he’s good at it’s antagonizing people. Might as well, right?

 

Quicker than Foggy can completely follow, Mike’s on the concrete and Stick’s got him pinned, one knee on his head and foot in the middle of his back. Mike’s still, though, and he has a grimace on his face that means he’s either in pain or he knows it’s futile to struggle. Or there’s some kind of learned-helplessness shit going on, which. Would not surprise him. Probably some fucked up mix of all three. 

 

“Now if you’ll just leave me and Matty to talk, that would be fantastic,” Stick says, “or-”

 

The rest of the sentence is lost in the thundering in Foggy’s ears. His head swims.

 

_ Matty. _

  
“Matt?” he says. It’s almost a whisper. But now that he thinks about it, it makes  _ sense- _ the way the Devil cocks his head, the lack of eye holes in the mask, Matt’s weirdly uncanny way of sensing when someone’s lying…

 

_ “Wham! Bam! Take that, you villain! And while I’m at it, did I just hit you or the lamp?”  _ The intentionally sloppy punches. 

 

“Foggy.” Matt’s voice is desperate and threaded with pain. “I’m- I’m sorry, I would have-”

 

“Pathetic,” Stick sneers. “What have I taught you about  _ feelings, _ Matty?”

 

“Don’t call him Matty,” Foggy says, suddenly. He doesn’t know what compels him to, but there’s a sudden surge of  _ righteousness  _ that takes control of his voice. Because that’s  _ his  _ nickname for Matt. Some old abusive asshole can’t steal it. 

 

“What?” Stick says, and he sounds actually shocked. He’s cocking his head; his expression is incredulous. Foggy takes a deep, shaking breath, and his words come out venom-laced when he says, 

 

“Don’t you fucking dare call him Matty.” 

 

And Foggy  _ lunges _ , staff in hand. Stick’s hand comes up to block it, and it lances off Stick’s arm, but the pole is bent now from the bombings and instead, it catches him in the soft spot under the ribs. He rains blows on the old man, remorselessly hitting him where he knows it’ll hurt. 

 

And when Stick wrenches the flagpole from his hand, snaps it, flings the pieces aside and catches Foggy’s arm in one hand, Foggy’s surprised that the hold is one of the ones Matt taught him to defend against. He drops, yanks his arm from Stick’s grasp- ignoring the twinge of pain against the scar that still exists there, wow, okay,  _ hi _ \- and dives between Stick’s legs, rolling and coming up behind him to deliver a few swift kicks. 

 

Stick curses, and says something under his breath. Foggy doesn’t catch what he says, but Matt obviously does; from behind him, he sees Matt curl up on himself as though he’s been kicked in the stomach. 

 

Stick gives a grin, then, yellowing teeth still unmarred with blood. Foggy hasn’t delivered any hits to his head- he may be  _ pissed,  _ but the guy’s hella old and Foggy is very sure he doesn’t want to kill him. 

 

“Take care of the idiot. He’s useless to me now.” And while Foggy stands there confusedly, knuckles raw under the cloth covering them, Stick turns to Foggy. “Pathetic, Matty. Feelings will only make you weak.”

 

And he kicks Matt one last time before disappearing into the shadows. 

 

Foggy runs to Matt’s side; he’s groaning, and now that Foggy can see better, his ankle and hand are definitely broken. The half of his face that Foggy can see is coated in bruises from pebbles digging into his face. 

 

“Matt,” he says. “Matt.” He doesn’t know what else to say. 

 

“Fogs, I’m- I’m so sorry, I just- I, I don’t, I don’t know how I would have-“

 

“Save it for when we get back to my place?” Foggy asks. Matt’s stuttering, which means he’s tired or in  _ way  _ more pain than he’s letting on. Probably both. It’s late. 

 

“My- my place,” Matt says. “More- more, uh, more supplies.”

 

“Okay,” Foggy agrees. “I’m gonna phone a friend, okay? Another vigilante who can help.” He didn’t think he could carry Matt alone, and Spidey could  _ basically  _ fly. Plus, they’d swapped numbers and stories of dumbass best friends, so they were definitely friends enough for this. 

 

“No. No, uh, no, nobody else. Just, just- just you, Fogs, I don’t- I can’t- I-“

 

“Okay. Okay, no other friends. I got you,” Foggy says. 

 

———

 

“I understand,” is the first thing Foggy says when he’s done setting Matt’s bones and wrapping them. He still has to tape his ribs, but that can wait for a second while they have the conversation and while Foggy locates the medical tape and another roll of Ace bandages. “I really do. I understand why you couldn’t tell me.”

 

Because the thing is, he does understand. He’s come close to telling Matt a couple of times. But the words stick in his throat like dry biscuits, and he finds that he can’t force them out. So yeah, he does understand. It’s just-

 

“But you knew. And you  _ still  _ didn’t tell me.”

 

“I, uh, I just didn’t know how,” Matt says, and there are literal tears in his eyes that don’t come from Foggy pressing too hard on a bruise- he’s located the bandages and is now working on wrapping the ribs, one loop above, one below. “Fogs, I’m- I’m  _ sorry.  _ Please don’t- just don’t- leave.”

 

“I’m not gonna leave, buddy,” Foggy says, tightening the bandage around Matt’s ribs. “I promise. But we gotta be honest with each other, now. Really,  _ actually  _ honest.”

 

And Foggy tells him everything. About the swings, about the pool, the roof, the bullies, the party, the country club. About his escapades in college, about their superhero conversation, about his disastrous first attempt and about Colleen Wing and about everything, even Karen’s meeting with Ben. 

 

He only leaves one thing out- the feelings he may or may not be having,  _ if  _ he was gay. 

 

(But he’s not gay. He’s hooked up with girls before. He likes girls. So he can’t be gay.)

 

(Hypothetically speaking, though, he knows better than to think those thoughts aren’t a secret.)

 

Matt, in return, tells him everything. About the crash, about his dad, about the orphanage, about Stick, meeting Elektra in law school, starting the Devil. Foggy listens and tries not to think about how little he knew before this-

 

And whoop, okay, yeah, he can’t keep the tears back long, because holy  _ shit. _

 

“Matt. You were  _ ten? _ ”

  
“I- I mean, uh, yeah. There, there, uh, was-  _ is-  _ a, uh, a war.”

 

“I don’t- okay, you know what.” Foggy’s even  _ more  _ pissed at the guy now. “First off, child soldiers are  _ never  _ okay, Matt. Second off, I already knew he was a dick- kicking you while you were down? Seriously? But like, dude, if I see him I’m not gonna be able to not attack him now.”

 

“From what I’ve heard,” Matt cracks a grin and Foggy  _ knows  _ they’re back, “fighting elderly blind men in public is pretty frowned upon.”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Foggy shoots back, “seems like 44% of the people arrested last week didn’t seem to care.”

 

“Are you calling me  _ old, _ Mr. Nelson? I will have you know I am  _ exactly  _ 99 days older than you.”

 

“Perfect, you got an extra 99 days to lose your brain cells, you April Fool’s child!”

 

They laugh, then Matt chews on his lip thoughtfully. “I was supposed to pick up my new suit a week ago, but I didn’t. Want to come with me?”   
  


“Suit as in…”

 

“A new Devil suit. Better armor.”

 

“Sure thing, counselor. Want a ride? Seeing as your ankle’s broken and all.”

 

Matt gives him a grateful smile. “I’d be much obliged.”

 

\-----

 

They fly over to Melvin’s workshop, where Matt explains on the rooftop how he had saved Melvin from a mugger and how Melvin had, in turn, offered to make him a suit because-

 

“He said mine looked like Buttercup’s Wesley had had a shitty marriage to a stereotypical bank burglar.”

 

Foggy ignores the way his heart flips at Matt’s unfairly cute pout-  _ straight, Jesus Christ, Foggy, you’re straight-  _ and says thoughtfully, “You know, he’s not wrong.”

 

Matt punches him, careful to keep weight off his bad foot. 

 

“Rude.”

 

“Pot. Kettle.”

 

“ _ Rude. _ ”

 

They enter Melvin’s workshop together (and the word  _ together  _ shouldn’t make him smile like a dope,  _ he is straight and has literally had sex with women.) _

 

“Oh, hey!” Melvin greets. “Oh, and, uh, you brought the Angel!”   
  


“Yeah, Mel. How are you? How’s Betsy?”   
  


“She’s good. She’s good. Thank you. I, uh, had some extra time after making your suit,” he adds.

 

Foggy looks around the room; it’s a dark red space, with his projects folded in one corner. A few business suits. A dark red outfit with a horned helmet. And-

 

“Melvin, who’s this for?” he asks cautiously, running a hand along the blue and silver fabric. 

 

“Ah,” Melvin says. “I used the extra time- because I saw Mr. Devil had been running with you- to make you a suit too?”   
  


Foggy’s taken aback. “Thank you so much, buddy, you didn’t have to!”

 

“But I wanted to,” Melvin insists, “because you helped. After the bombing, people were trapped, and you helped all day long. You help us like Mr. Devil does.”

 

He shows them how the silver and red will deflect most blades, depending on the angle, and that the blue and black will defend against most anything. He shows Matt the weapon- a pair of billy clubs, telescoping, grappling, garrotting, useful for most anything. He slides it into the holster at the suit’s hip.

 

Then he turns back to Foggy apologetically. “I’m sorry, I, uh, I couldn’t finish yours in time, but I’m working on it. I just need to- can I take your measurements?”   
  


“Sure, buddy,” Foggy agrees.

 

“Angel,” Matt says, and Foggy concentrates very hard on his heart not flipping at the casual pet name-  _ yes, it’s his code name but dammit he wishes he hadn’t picked that motif now. _ “I won’t wear the suit until you have yours. It’ll be more beneficial if the city knows we work together.”

 

“Kidnapping,” Foggy points out. “Someone gets to one of us they can use us as a hostage.”

 

“Nobody’s gonna take us hostage,” Matt declares. “And I’ll teach you how to get out of cuffs and rope and all that shit.”

 

“Okay,” Foggy says. “Okay.”

 

He glances over at the table. The fancy suits are still there. He’s curious, now. “Melvin, who’re those for?”

 

Melvin stiffens. “My employer.”

 

Matt’s lips tighten nearly imperceptibly, to the point where Foggy’s pretty sure he’s the only one who notices the quick shift into a more devilish persona. “Name?”

 

Mel shakes his head vigorously, marking down the measurements on a sheet of paper. “I- he’s dangerous, Mr. Devil, he’ll- he’ll hurt me, he’ll hurt you-”

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Foggy soothes. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell us.”

 

Because he’s already found out. Mel tacks his paper up next to a set of diagrams for a large man labeled  _ W. Fisk. _

 

\-----

 

Karen pulls him aside the next day- really the same day, since they get home at 1 am, but still. She glances left and right, then whispers, “I gotta talk to you. Can you come to my place after work?"

 

“Yeah, uh, yeah, sure,” Foggy agrees, trying not to think too hard about it. Until he remembers Ben Urich, and then he does start thinking hard about it.

 

He finishes his work for the clients in record time, pouring the rest of his time into researching Urich. He’s a helluva reporter, or was, at least- he wrote a lot of good stuff, a lot of things that were real and going on and important. Now, however, he seems to be in a slump; writing a bunch of bullshit that doesn’t make the front page, or even the first ten. It’s less breaking news and closer to tabloid gossip. But… reading the articles, it’s pretty clear to Foggy that he didn’t want the job as a tabloid gossip reporter. His breaking news articles are exciting. His editorials are snappy and witty. His gossip column? It’s obvious he spent no time on it; it’s practically best to feed it to the birds. 

 

However.

 

_ However. _

 

When Foggy rereads one a few times, he realizes what’s going on. Urich picks notable names from the crime community. He’s heard them thrown around. And he’s informing the public what to do about it, by making what appears to be the boring-est column in the history of ever.

 

Which is  _ incredibly  _ smart. Damn, Karen. Good sidekick choice. Or mentor choice? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if Karen knows. 

 

He makes a mental note to check the guy’s column out more often. This week’s pick is Dr. Curt Connors, a “talented biologist who has been doing research on reptilian cells for years.” Urich also mentions the fact that he’s scared of spiders.

 

Huh. He texts Spidey the picture and a “hey have you seen this guy? he keeps subtly posting crime news in gossip columns.”

 

Spidey replies with “??????” and then “ill check later, teacher”

 

Foggy assumes that means a teacher’s coming and not that Foggy should be his teacher, because Foggy is still firmly in the in-training category. Colleen has started giving him extra, private lessons, “because you look like you’re actually interested in martial arts and not just going here to socialize.”

 

Foggy’s  _ pretty  _ sure she knows. Like, she would definitely pick him out of a suspect lineup- “This one, officers, this’s my student and the guy who assaulted 40-odd people in alleyways!”

 

Not that Colleen would do that to him; she swaps knowing looks with him whenever people talk about the Angel and the Devil, but always says loud and clear, “I hope wherever that guy is, he can do his work in peace without a bunch of  _ martial arts students  _ harassing him when they’re supposed to be  _ practicing. _ ”

 

On second thought, she  _ definitely  _ knows. 

 

Anyway, all thoughts of that are banished from his mind when he ducks into Karen’s small apartment after work- it’s a new one, he notes, smaller than the first, and she probably sold the old one. Too full of old memories, he’d guess. They sit down on a couch, an old ratty one- the same one from Karen’s former apartment- and Karen takes a deep breath.

 

“Ben Urich is a reporter for the Bulletin.”

 

Yeah, Foggy knows. “Okay. You’re working with a journalist?”

 

“Yeah, uh. We’re trying to investigate Union Allied.”

 

Foggy sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Okay.”

 

She shows him their diagram- the Yakuza, the Russians, everyone- working for some sort of higher power- she calls him the Kingpin, and Foggy wonders if he already knows who it is. His eyes travel to a pair of jacks next to him, pinned right next to each other. 

 

One has a black mask. One has a wing drawn on its back.

 

“Then there’s the Devil and the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen,” she says, and then turns to look at him because he just caught his breath pretty sharply.

 

“You don’t think they’re-”

 

“Working with the Kingpin? No,” Karen says. “But they might be the only ones in the city who can stop him.”

 

_ Tell her. _

 

“Karen,” he says, “Uh, I reckon you should know-”

 

Her eyes- blue, piercing- fixate on him.

 

“I’ve, uh, met the pair before.”

 

_ Dammit. _

 

“You have?” Karen says. “I’ve met the Devil, but never the Angel.”

 

Foggy nods. “Pretty- uh, pretty regularly. They showed up on my fire escape one day looking for, uh, looking for legal counsel.” 

 

“So you can get in contact with them?” Karen asks. She sounds  _ incredibly  _ excited, and her eyes have lit up. “Get information from them?”   


 

“Yeah,” he says. “I do research for them sometimes. They gave me a name- W. Fisk.”

 

_ “Fisk, _ ” she says, sounding the name out on her tongue. “Okay. I can research that, if you’ll ask your guys who the Kingpin is, explain my theory to them.”

 

“I’ll make sure,” Foggy promises.

 

He smiles and leaves Karen’s apartment. He would definitely be explaining this theory to one of them, at least.

 

They meet at Fogwells; Matt has a pair of police-grade handcuffs. He demonstrates the technique with a pin, then with a hairpin, then with a knife. He lets Foggy try without their being on anything; it takes him a while to figure out how the tumbler mechanisms work, but once he’s got it he’s pretty good with them. Then Matt says out of the blue, “So how was Karen?”   
  


“You could tell I visited her?” He’s intrigued.

 

He steps forward with his bad foot and takes a deep breath, letting his mouth fall partially open; Foggy knows it’s just to scent the air better, but he’s intimidated (probably not intimidated, quite, but) by the proximity. “Smelled her perfume hanging around you. Not like she and you did anything- er, sexual- but, but you just have her scent around your hands and feet, like you were casually touching her floor or walls or doorknobs.”

 

“Huh.” Foggy thinks he understands. "We talked a bit." He explains the diagram of playing cards.

_ Click. _

 

Cold steel bites into his wrist. He glances down at his hand and finds he’s been cuffed to the boxing ring.

 

“Mattyyyyyy.”

 

“Go on, escape!” he encourages, and Foggy snags the pin off the table and picks the lock in a couple minutes. It’s awkward; he keeps having to maneuver himself into a comfortable position. 

 

He gets himself off, wipes away the spots of blood that collected on the back of his wrist-  _ what the shit, Mahoney, these things hurt like hell- _ and hands the cuffs back to Matt.

 

He looks down at them.

 

“I’m all free,” Foggy says, holding his wrists up to not-show Matt.

 

He promptly cuffs them together. “Again.”

 

_ “Matt. _ ”

 

Once he gets out of those- after about ten minutes- Matt holds up his hands. “Here, cuff me.”

 

Foggy raises an eyebrow he knows he can’t see. “Is this some kinky shit? Because you don’t have a pin in your hands.”

 

“I know. It’s not. Cuff me.”

 

Foggy obligingly snaps the cuffs around Matt’s wrists. Matt is wearing longer sleeves than Foggy, and has his gloves on, so he’s confident it won’t hurt him.

 

In ten seconds flat Matt’s out again, holding the pin  _ Foggy was certain had been in his fucking pocket. _

 

As Foggy sputters he says, “This is a skill I want you to practice at home, okay? And always keep a pin somewhere hidden in your costume. Want to move on to ropes?”

 

And then he hears a cry. Matt hears it, too; the tilt of his head, the furrow of his brow, the purse of his lips tell him everything he needs.

 

Foggy snaps his gloves on; they pull their masks on; Foggy shoves the bobby pin into his hair and the pin by his ankle.

 

Foggy knows he’s the first responder in these situations. Matt’ll take the time to lock up, because Foggy’s got this and Matt's got a broken ankle.

 

They work better together now that they know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, sweet, bisexual Foggy who does not understand the concept of bisexuality. I love him so much. 
> 
> Also, Foggy is not a hypocrite. Foggy protects Matt even when Foggy knows it's Matt. Be like Foggy. 
> 
> Comments make me grin like an idiot! Leave comments to make Red grin like an idiot. :D


	4. In Which Foggy Learns that Being a Vigilante Helps With, Like, Everything (Except Gay Crises)

Foggy takes a deep breath, staring at the phone in his shaking hands. He’d sent the text to Marci a while ago, and was… apprehensive of the response. The message sits on his screen in blue, waiting for a response.

 

FN: how do u know if ur gay

 

 _What if that’s a super offensive question?_ he asks himself. _What if I just fucked everything up?_

 

FN: actually nvm

 

The grey bubble pops up then, and Foggy has to resist the _very_ overwhelming urge to fling his phone into the Atlantic and fly to, like, Nebraska.

 

MS: is it matt?

 

 _FUCK._ Marci read him too well. He knows he should’ve texted someone else.

 

Except. Well, he doesn’t really have any other friends who are openly gay. He knows Karen was probably an amount of not-straight, but he isn’t exactly going to just, like, confront her about it. Because _that_ would be a dick move. So he texts back.

 

FN: …

 

FN: yea

 

MS: hah. jeremy from law school owes me $25 now

 

FN: can we pls get back 2 the topic at hand

 

MS: so. matt

 

FN: y e a h

 

He pauses, glances around, and looks back at the screen, feeling a little foolish for even having looked; Matt’s blind, after all, and no amount of superpowers is gonna let him see Foggy’s screen.

 

FN: ……….its the ass

 

FN: also he keeps calling me pet names

 

FN: and also also my heart keeps doing weird things when hes aroudn????

 

MS: you, my friend, are going through a gay crisis

 

MS: but it sounds like he’s being a dick about it with the pet names jdsghkh

 

FN: no no no theyre for a legit reason

 

MS: ?????????????

 

MS: okay im not going to ask

 

MS: but foggy bear? browse youtube a bit, watch some videos- the stereotypical “how i knew i was gay shit”

 

MS: worked for me

 

FN: wait but

 

FN: ive hooked up w girls b4

 

FN: and i like girls

 

FN: i dont get it

 

MS: how did you get all the way through columbia without discovering the concept of bisexuality

 

FN: ????????

 

MS: you can like both, dumbass, thats a thing

 

FN: w h a t

 

MS: also meet me at starbucks on sunday at 4 pm because we are absolutely talking about this in person

 

FN: yes ma am thank you ma am

 

He closes the text messages. His hands are still slightly shaky, but whatever. He’s Foggy Nelson, and he’s the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen, he can handle a minor gay crisis. (Bi crisis? Bisis?)

 

Then his thoughts flash back to Matt, and he decides, okay, maybe it’s not such a _minor_ gay crisis.

 

Fuck, he needs a drink.

 

\-----

 

“Are you okay?” Matt asks, the next time they meet up. “Your heart is. It’s doing a thing.”

 

“I’m fine,” Foggy says. Which. It’s not a _lie,_ technically, so he hopes Matt’s lie detector shit doesn’t trip.

 

“Okay,” Matt says, but he sounds unconvinced. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask. Which somehow only makes Foggy want to tell him more.

 

Eventually, Matt asks, “Are you nervous?”

 

“What? No.” If there’s one thing Foggy hasn’t been about this whole crazy vigilante thing he’s become, it’s scared. It’s funny- no matter how much he gets beat up (which is surprisingly little, recently) he’s never been scared to go out. Considering Matt’s the one the internet named “The Man Without Fear,” he’s a little surprised at his own lack of apprehension.

 

Matt shrugs. “It was a thought.”

 

Foggy shrugs back. “I’ve never actually been scared out here.”

 

“You don’t get hurt that much,” Matt notes. “That’s possibly why.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, also, I forgot to tell you what I talked to Karen about,” Foggy remembers. He tells him everything Karen said, and adds the lie he told Karen. “So she thinks I have a direct line to us. Which. Isn’t wrong.”

 

“Well, it could come in handy in the future,” Matt says.

 

“I think…” He takes a deep breath. “We should tell her the truth.”

 

Foggy watches the mask wrinkle as Matt furrows his eyebrows. “You’re probably right. I just. I don’t know how she’ll take it. Considering you already lied to her-”

 

Ouch.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Matt adds hastily. “It’s just. Well, It’s not as much as it.. as it was when I lied to you, so…”

 

Double ouch. “Hey, hey,” Foggy protests, “I lied to you too. We were both at fault. We should definitely tell her, though; it might help her with her investigation. She asked us to find the quote-unquote ‘kingpin,’ after all.”

 

Matt bites his lip- his _unfairly red and pretty lip_ \- and nods. “Yeah. You’re probably right. Even if you sound a little apprehensive about it.”

 

He’s not, actually. He knows Karen will take it okay, but he’s pretty sure Matt keeps misattributing Foggy’s heart rate jumping, so. He nods. “I think she’ll take it okay, though.”

 

_Woo, being a lawyer and skirting the lies!_

 

Thankfully, it seems to work. “We can go back to my place and do drinks Friday night, then,” Matt concedes, “and. And we’ll tell her.”

 

It’s Tuesday. That gives them time. So he agrees.

 

\------

 

The next day Matt takes a little longer to come in. Foggy knows why, of course; he got grazed by a bullet on the inner calf, and he was probably having difficulty getting dressed.

 

“Matt wouldn’t understand,” Karen’s saying. “You know what he would say.”

 

“That we’re being awesome?” Foggy tries. It’s true- Matt is completely on board with the plan, except for all the parts where he’s entirely too concerned about Karen’s safety, considering that. Well. Karen’s Karen.

 

“That we’re being stupid,” Karen retorts.

 

“I prefer the term foolheartedly provocative,” Foggy says. Just to derail the conversation.

 

“Yeah, that’s lawyer talk for stupid,” she says, and Foggy scoffs- as if she’s not basically a lawyer, or at least a paralegal. She does all the work a paralegal would do, anyway. Plus her investigative shit.

 

“Look,” he says, “if we’re gonna be Nancy Drew-ing this shit together, I think we have to be honest. With Matt, too.”

 

She doesn’t reply, other than to offer him a cup of coffee. He frowns at it. “What, you don’t like my coffee?”

 

Well, as long as he’s on the topic of honesty. “No, I hate it.”

 

“My God, you are such a dick,” she teases.

 

“On occasion some dickery may leak out,” he concedes, “but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

 

She raises an eyebrow as he takes a long sip of the bitter coffee. It sucks, but hey, caffeine. “It means something.”

 

Ugh. _Okay, gotta pull this back onto the topic, because I hear Matt walking up the stairs and he’s gonna want to know what we’re talking about._ “Okay, let’s say we keep Matt in the dark. How long-”

 

The door opens, and Foggy pretends he wasn’t planting that line there for Matt to find it. “-should I grow my hair out? Matt, what’s your take? Mullet? Full pony?”  


Karen shakes her head and mutters, “Holy shit.” It’s then that both Foggy and Matt realize there’s a massive shiner over his left eye. “Did you fall down again?”

 

Matt passes it off as nothing, and she seems to accept it; they fall into the usual morning routines of checking voicemail and booting computers and checking emails, keeping the flow of steady banter. Eventually, though, Matt sighs. “Karen.”

 

“Yeah?” she asks, and Foggy knows Matt can hear her consciously trying to keep her tone neutral.

 

“What aren’t you telling me?”

 

Foggy glances at Karen, gives her a subtle nod. There’s no reason he shouldn’t know. And surprisingly, she acquiesces- her words rush out, as though trying to get the secret over and done with. “We’re investigating Union Allied.”

 

Matt looks startled, even though Foggy knows Matt knows. “Didn’t you sign an NDA?”

 

“It said I wouldn’t go public and I won’t. I have someone lined up for that part.”

 

“You’re breaking it to the public?” Matt looks genuinely surprised this time, and Foggy’s honestly pretty shocked too. He knew Urich was in on it, of course, but he didn’t realize why- he thought Urich was just helping with the investigative part of the process.

 

“Look, whoever is behind Union Allied, or whatever they call themselves, they are _trying_ to strongarm people like Elena so they can just- take their homes, build their condos, whatever, gentrify the neighborhood or that bullshit.”

 

“I understand what you’re talking about, Karen, I really do.” Matt’s voice is his _I’m-a-lawyer-trust-me_ voice that Foggy’s had years to get used to. Karen has not, and it’s _effective._ “But I’m worried about what’ll happen when they find out you’re investigating.”

 

“I.” Karen bites her lip. “It already happened. I’m fine.”

 

“What?” Matt actually recoils at that, and Foggy realizes he forgot to text Matt about that one. “Karen, what happened? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” she dismisses. “The Angel found me. Foggy, thank him for me, will you? He came in with that pole of his, all bent up, and clocked him around the head. I pepper sprayed him, too.” She sounds proud, and Foggy honestly thinks she should be proud; she was a _menace_ with that pepper spray last night, and didn’t even freak out once afterward-

 

_“Thank you,” Karen says shakily, putting the pepper spray away. “Foggy says you’re friends?”_

 

_Foggy has to think quick on hiding his voice. He makes it a little higher-pitched, a lot quieter for kids, but doesn’t talk much otherwise. The quiet voice will probably work for Karen. “Yes,” he says softly, uncomfortably aware of how his own register has changed. “He gives me legal advice. And… company.”_

 

_“Company,” she says, but doesn’t push the topic. “What were those guys doing here?”_

 

_“Trying to kill you, obviously. We need to get to a better location- I’ll explain it all there.”_

 

_“Okay,” she says. “I take it you’re not walking there.”_

 

_“We’re flying,” he says, proud that he can sound so badass even while wearing goofy wings on his back. “Can I-?”_

 

_He picks her up and they fly to a rooftop near her apartment. He explains everything he knows about Union Allied and Fisk so far, including the armored suits. She listens, explains that she knew some of that from her work with a reporter. She doesn’t say names, but Foggy knows she’s talking about Ben._

 

_And then, the next morning, she tells him all the info he told her last night. There’s some vague humor in the situation, but he’s not quite sure how to deal with it._

 

“Well,” Matt says, “I’m glad the Angel found you. But I’m just worried you’ll be hurt.”

 

“I _was_ hurt,” she snaps. “By those bastards. I don’t care how much- what I signed or how much money they paid me to shut up and forget, I’m not gonna. I’m not gonna stick my head in the sand, and, and let it happen to someone else because I’m _scared._ Which. I am. A lot.”

 

“She means it, Matt,” Foggy says, because he can see her face and Matt can’t.

 

“I, uh, yeah, I got that.” Matt leans his cane against the wall and sits down in one of the office folding chairs. “So you and Foggy are involved. Who else am I worrying about?”

 

“Ben Urich,” Karen tells him. “From the Bulletin.”  


“He’s safe, Matt,” Foggy adds. “Also, we’re working with the Angel, at least. Probably the Devil, too?”

 

Karen nods. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not some kid, I’m not gonna get hurt.”

 

Matt leans back in the chair. “We have to be smart about it, then. Work on our own turf, work it out legally.”

 

Foggy would call him a hypocrite, but that would make him one too.

 

“That’s not nearly as heroic as you might think,” Karen points out.

 

“I don’t want to be a hero. I want you all to be safe, and I want to protect what we’ve built here. We know the law, we can use it to our advantage.”

 

“Do we have a choice here?” Karen asks, and Foggy’s taken aback a bit.

 

“Do you _want_ to work outside the law?” he asks, a little incredulous. “That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

 

“What’s the other option?” Matt asks cautiously.

 

“We investigate first, before declaring any big court actions. We publish what we’ve found. Let public backlash take care of it.”

 

“Then let’s settle for a happy compromise,” Foggy says. “We investigate first. Make sure all our investigations are legal, or as legal as they can be, considering we’re working with vigilantes. Their evidence isn’t court-admissible, but I can ask them to find me court-admissible evidence, or sources of it. From there, we go forward with Elena’s case. Defend her in court, get Urich to cover it. Use that to prove who’s behind the whole thing.”

 

Matt’s face has softened during the speech; Karen’s has grown more determined. “Okay,” Karen says. “That sounds like a plan.”

 

They work through the day and well into the evening. Matt finds ties between the men who attacked Karen and a contracting business linked to Union Allied; Karen found a corrupt detective who was sending information. Someone had shot him; people were saying it was the Devil. Foggy thought that was a load of horseshit; Matt wouldn’t shoot anyone. Thankfully. Karen backed him up, even without knowing who Matt was.

 

That night, Matt and Foggy split up. Foggy patrols; talks to Spidey at some point along the way when he brushes the borders of Midtown proper. Spidey tells him Urich’s been dropping him hints in the newspaper for ages.

 

Now that Foggy reads the column, too, he’s noticed the detail- he’ll leave a hint as to who he thinks the villain would be weakest to. _Afraid of spiders. Is a hell of a fun time to talk to. Practically a gift from Heaven._ Sometimes, there are other hints, too- _Giving it his best shot_ seems to correlate to Hawkeye, or even _A good time for everyone-_ that’s a recurring message, too, which Foggy’s pretty sure just means “he’s hella weak and anyone can take him down.”

 

Matt calls him later, at around one in the morning. Foggy’s nursing a particularly bad bruise while atop a building, and answers right away. “Matt?”

 

“The detective’s dead,” Matt says. “I didn’t kill him.”  


Great start to a conversation.

 

“Uh. Okay. Who did?”  


“Carl Hoffman. Another detective. But that’s irrelevant- what _is_ relevant is the information I just found out about Fisk.”

 

“You found him?” Foggy asks. He’s asked around (read: gotten criminals food, got them to rethink their life choices, wheedled information out of them) about Fisk, but people are _terrified_ to talk. It’s insane- he’s taken down drug rings and everything like a full-fledged vigilante (no pun intended,) but most people are willing to talk after they’ve been pinned to the wall with a metal flagpole. Fisk? People would rather _die_ than talk about him.

 

“No. No, I didn’t, but I- he’s the Kingpin.”

 

“Oh. Uh, that. Makes a surprising amount of sense,” Foggy says, feeling stupid.

 

“I know.” Matt’s breathing hard on the other end of the line. Foggy studiously doesn’t think about it. “I’m going to track down Ben Urich. Can you-”

 

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence- Foggy knows he needs someone with him. He probably just watched (well, not _watched_ ) Blake die. So without a word, he takes off.

 

It’s not hard to find Matt, perched atop Metro General, slumped against a pipe of some sort. Foggy lands next to him. “You doing okay?” he asks.

 

Matt sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Let’s go, Angel Man.”

 

“Okay, Devil Boy,” Foggy says, not entirely convinced still but willing to let it go. He lets Matt climb on his back and tries to ignore the close proximity in favor of getting himself off the ground. “Where’s Urich tonight?”

 

“Fly closer to the buildings and I’ll tell you,” Matt says good-naturedly, and Foggy pokes at the hand wrapped around his stomach in retaliation.

 

They locate Urich; it starts to rain halfway through, and Foggy’s wings get soggy. He’s glad he made them of cloth strips, now; they’ll dry out. He’d considered using crepe paper, which would have melted immediately.

 

Matt tells Urich, “I didn’t blow the hell out of those Russians. And even the media hasn’t posted a single thing bad about Angel.”

 

To mask the beating of his heart, Foggy adds, “And you know firsthand the media will warp anything.” This garners a dry chuckle, which Foggy counts as a win.

 

“So, what?” Urich says. “You want me to write your side of this?”

 

“No,” Matt says. “I want you to expose the person who did.”

 

“You got a name?” Urich asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Wilson Fisk,” they say, together.

 

Urich raises the other eyebrow to join the first. “Never heard of him.”

 

“That’s because he doesn’t want you to,” Foggy answers.

 

“It’s what makes him dangerous,” Matt says. “Living in the shadows, nobody knowing who he is-”

 

“Say the men in the masks.”

 

“We’re trying to protect this city,” Matt says defensively. Foggy steps in to defuse the situation.

 

“Look, we know the media’s not really on our side, even after all the cleanup we did. Even after we defused one of those bombs, because we didn’t know there were more. We need you to write this- to bring him to justice. We can’t touch him. He’s armored- his suits are made with some kind of resistant fiber, like Kevlar- and more than that, anything we do to him won’t last. He won’t go to jail for being beat up by a couple of enhanced guys. We can’t touch him, but you can.”

 

“Why me?” Urich asks. “A hundred other reporters could take this on.”

 

“Good people trust you,” Matt says. “People we trust.”

 

“And I’ve read your column,” Foggy adds. “The coded messages you put in it for me, for Spidey, for Devil and for the other vigilantes of New York. You still want to help your city even though you’ve been taken off the headliners. You’re _smart,_ and you have a sense of justice.”

 

Urich nods slowly. “I’ll do it. I’m glad to see I’m still making a difference.”

 

Matt adds, “And we’re looking for information, if you have it. On Union Allied.”

 

“You dumped that guy on the doorstep of the Bulletin?” It’s the first Foggy’s hearing of it, but it fits Matt’s personality.

 

Matt nods once, sharply. “I think he’s connected to Fisk.”

 

They talk more. Urich’s closed-off; he’s got walls up around his information and his favors. Foggy breaks those walls down. Matt gains the information. They walk out knowing a lot more about their enemy.

 

It works. It’s good.

 

And the next morning, all their hard work? All those walls torn down?

 

Foggy almost, _almost_ thinks they’re ruined.

 

Fisk goes on live television. Gives a speech. Convinces the world that he- a murderer- a psychopath- the person who set the Kitchen aflame- is the good guy. Paints Matt and Foggy as masked menaces, as people who lurk in the shadows. As terrorists.

 

And it fails. _Spectacularly._

 

Twitter’s a shitshow the next day, because Fisk? Fisk was an _idiot._ Sure, people think Matt’s done some harm. But ultimately? Videos still circulate of the pair trying to fix the damage from the bombing. People talk online about how Matt saved them from rapists. Former criminals talk about how Foggy sat them down with a meatball sub and a kind word and got their families to safety and helped them find legal help.

 

The truth of the matter is, nobody _believes_ Fisk. His fantastic public speaking skills fall on ears deafened by Foggy’s kindness and Matt’s bravery.

 

For a glorious moment, they’re on top of the world. They talk easily about how they can put Fisk away now, about finding Armand Tully. They easily reassure Elena to hold out hope yet, because sure, the offer to move was doubled, but they can fight back. Matt goes to meet Vanessa Marianna, from the video Fisk released. He returns more determined than ever.

 

In the meantime, Foggy talks to Marci about Tully; he finds that Tully’s away on vacation, but it’s no big deal. It’ll all be okay. Matt and Foggy spend the night atop a roof with Spidey, bantering and flying to peoples’ aid as needed. Foggy smiles extra-wide, because Matt doesn’t know about the custom engraved sign he’d ordered earlier that afternoon, and because Matt is handsome and, well. Things are going well for once!

 

He feels good. They’re going to tell Karen tomorrow night about their identities. Spidey keeps giving Foggy knowing looks every time he laughs a little too hard at one of Matt’s jokes, but honestly? It could be _so_ much worse.

 

The next day he gives Matt the engraved sign. He lights up like Foggy’s given him the world; Foggy thinks he actually sheds a tear or two. “You’re not gonna kiss me,” Matt says, self-assuredly.

 

“I don’t know, I’m feelin’ a little something,” Foggy smiles back sunnily. Matt’s straight but it’s fine. He can handle a little gay crisis that might come with some unrequited love involved. They make plans to go back to Matt’s place for drinks, just like they’d planned Tuesday night.

 

\-----

They don’t go back to Matt’s place for drinks.

 

Matt’s harried but satisfied by the end of the day; his hair sticks up in every direction from the amount he’s run his hand through it. Karen looks like she’s made of glass, pale and tired and fragile, but somehow more determined than Foggy’s ever seen her, and she looks victorious. Foggy feels good (apart from the Matt issue) knows he’s consumed an unhealthy amount of coffee, and _probably_ is gonna overdose on caffeine if he keeps going. Beer at this point would be a bad ide-

 

The phone rings.

 

The office doesn’t even stop its pleasant flow of banter and work while Karen picks up.

 

From the way both Matt and Karen’s faces pale, it’s bad news; Matt stops in the middle of a sentence teasing Foggy for his slow typing. Karen’s knuckles whiten, one hand on the phone cord, the other around the phone. Matt’s face drops, his shoulders slump, and his fingers tighten in his pant legs so hard Foggy hopes he doesn’t rip them.

 

Karen puts the phone down- she’s not the one who hung up, apparently- and she chokes back a sob. “It’s the fifteenth precinct,” she says, and visibly swallows hard. Foggy knows if he was closer, he’d see her eyelashes clumped together with tears, watery red eyes. “They. They need us to identify a body.”

 

Foggy’s blood goes cold, and he fights down the instinct to curl into a ball and never come out. “Whose?”

 

“Señora Cardenas’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me  
> It's 11:16  
> I haven't studied for finals  
> But hey, I'm 15
> 
> or, Red told themself they're gonna take a break from writing on their birthday. And then they _didn't._ And now they're _regretting that decision._


	5. IN Which Foggy and Matt Try Their Best and Don't Really Succeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**pwease wead the end nowotes!!!!!! uwu** _

Things are hectic in the aftermath of Señora Cardenas’s death.

 

Matt blames himself, Foggy knows, and Karen’s fucking  _ pissed,  _ but really, isn’t it Foggy’s fault? They got comfortable. He knows he’s not going to make that mistake again now.

 

They go to Josie’s. She gives them free drinks- it’s hard for her not to have heard of what happened. Hell’s Kitchen is a tiny neighborhood, after all, in the grand scheme of things. News travels faster than Foggy does when he flies. 

 

They discuss. Matt thinks it’s a murder, an intentional one, that is- one that was planned, specifically  _ for  _ her. “You think it was a coincidence?” he says, quietly, his voice low so only the trio could hear. “Elena decides to stay and fight, to rally what’s left of her neighbors, and this happens.”

 

“You think Fisk is behind this?” Foggy asks, but he already knows the answer; of course, Fisk is. Foggy’s  _ been  _ there, now, in the dark and seedy underbelly of Hell’s Kitchen (not that the entire neighborhood isn’t a dark and seedy underbelly after the Incident.) He  _ knows  _ how scared the criminals are when he asks, maybe over a ham sandwich, if they’ve heard the name. Even the kids who are mugging people, unaffiliated with a gang or organization, know who he is, and they’re  _ terrified.  _

 

“Speak of the devil,” Karen murmurs, and someone yells a sloppy boo and flings a dart at the TV, where Fisk is. Closed captioning is on, and he’s talking about how he mourns her death.

 

_ Fat fucking chance. _ He can’t wait to get his fists on Fisk, at this point, because how  _ dare  _ he. He talks about a “masked psychopath,” and Foggy hears another person in the bar snort aloud.

 

“Psychopath? Sure, the Devil’s aggressive, but he don’t kill and he don’t even crack skulls anymore, nothin’ that’ll take you out for more than a month or two. The Angel ain’t even aggressive, not really, just sympathetic.”   
  


“You met ‘im?” another patron asks, surprised. “Whadju do?”

 

“Mugged a CVS,” the first says, matter-of-fact. Foggy recognizes his voice; his name’s Alan, and he was trying to get insulin for his kid. He got the guy set up with a starter job so he could make the money to buy insulin. If he hadn’t been too scared, he’d’ve stolen it himself. “Angel came ‘long and talked it out with me. Told me he wasn’t gonna make me turn myself in, got me a job and everything so I could pay for the stuff I stole. He’s real nice, honestly. Don’t belong out here on the streets.”

 

Foggy watches Matt smile into his liquor despite himself, and he wipes away a stray tear track from when he was not-quite-sobbing earlier. The thing is, hearing the words helps, if only a little.

 

Next to him, Karen is ranting angrily. “We need to  _ stand together, _ ” she says, “let them know that they will  _ fail  _ because we believe we can make a difference! They are  _ cowards-   _ afraid of stepping out of the shadows.”

 

“We should put you on the witness stand,” Matt offers.

 

“We must dissent from the indifference. We must dissent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear, the hatred, and the mistrust. We must dissent from a nation that has buried its head in the sand, waiting in vain for the needs of its poor, its- fuck, Matt, what’s the next-?” 

 

“Elderly,” Matt supplies, looking slightly awestruck. “The needs of its poor, its elderly, and its sick to-”

 

“To disappear and blow away,” Foggy finishes.

 

“You memorized it?” Matt looks touched.

 

“Poorly, apparently, but that’s what happens when you only memorize something because your best friend recites it every day.”

 

“It fits, though,” Karen says softly. “Somehow, it always fits. It’s true- we  _ must  _ dissent from the indifference and the apathy and the mistrust and all that, because he’s not gonna stop even if he’s not as high in people’s priority list as he thinks he is.”

 

“Yeah,” Foggy nods. They are way too sober for this. “I just… I can’t believe she’s fucking dead, you know. After  _ everything  _ we worked for. After she tried so hard.”

 

Karen takes first initiative by knocking back her shot, and they finally fall back into their usual drinking routine. She tells them she hopes the Masks get him, and they agree; it’s not even a lie.  Matt manages to steer the conversation to theology somehow, because that’s how Matt works or whatever. 

 

\-----

 

They attend her funeral. It’s dim and rainy (of course it is, because his life is a fucking comic book now) and he stands there blankly, under a dark umbrella, listening to Matt’s priest give a short speech and Matt give a longer one, translating every line into Spanish. It’s a good speech, but… it just washes over him. Karen’s holding back tears by the end, though, and Foggy…

 

He can’t believe he wasn’t there to save her.

 

He should have done  _ more. _ Should have-

 

They’re the last ones standing by the grave.

 

Not that there were many in the first place, of course. Them and the Father, and some people from Matt’s church, some from Elena’s. Her neighbors; the ones Elena had encouraged to fight on. Because Foggy had  _ told  _ her to tell them that. And here’s Matt, up by the grave, giving some speech about how they need to continue to fight in Elena’s memory or some bullshit like that.

 

He’s  _ pissed. _

 

He and Matt go to the gym. Fight a round or three; Matt wins every time, because he’s mad too, isn’t holding back. On the fourth round, Foggy snaps and bursts into midair and lets loose a spinning kick on Matt’s cheek. He hits the ground  _ hard, _ and even though his arm slaps out to mitigate the physical impact, he can see the pain and hurt on Matt’s face and immediately regrets everything.

 

He drops to the ground. “Fuck, Matt. I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Matt grits out, and Foggy feels guilt churn in his gut.   
  


“No- let me get you an ice pack or something-”

 

“Foggy,” Matt says, and he sits back down, defeated. But Matt’s  _ grinning. _ “You hit me!”   
  


“I- uh. Yeah. I did?” Foggy says, unsure how to feel. “Is- that’s a good thing?”   
  


“On a one-on-one thing in a ring? Most people can’t hit me.” A shadow of something darker passes over his face, and Foggy knows better than to ask if it’s Stick. “You’re finally getting used to using your powers in a fight.”

 

“I. Uh, I guess I am.” He hadn’t looked at it that way.

 

Matt gets up suddenly. “Let’s go. We’re getting some revenge.”

 

“On Fisk?” Foggy asks, scrambling to his feet and starting to change into the costume.

 

“No,” Matt says, “not yet. But on the guy who actually killed Elena.”

 

“Your chauffeur is at the ready,” Foggy says, yanking a sleeve on and then fixing the wings to the back, straightening out the wire.

 

“Reminds me, we need to go back to Melvin at some point,” Matt says, pulling his mask on. His is closer to a single, long strip of fabric, so he takes a second to tie the knot at the base of his skull. Foggy lets him climb on before pulling his own mask on- his is closer to a ski cap, tight and form-fitting, with white mesh for the eyes- and they kick off into the air. Foggy flies higher than usual, since he knows where he’s going.

 

“We need to tell Karen,” Foggy says. “Sooner rather than later.”

 

“Yeah. We’ll do it,” Matt says, his voice muffled; Foggy realizes he has his face buried in Foggy’s back, and has to fight to keep his heart rate steady. “Don’t put a date on it, this time.”   


  
That reminds him he has the thing with Marci tomorrow, and he bites back a sigh. He can handle this. He’s flying through the motherfucking air, after all. If he can have superpowers, he can handle talking his way through a gay crisis.

 

No biggie.

 

They land by the side door to Elena’s apartment complex. Matt finds traces of the man and follows the scent trail from the rooftops. “Shitty menthols,” he tells Foggy, “and heroin. Probably a few other drugs in the cocktail. I could differentiate if I wanted to, but my focus is…”

 

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but after Elena’s death, Foggy knows what he means. His own focus is all over the place. Twice now he’s had to consciously remind himself to stop floating, because he was at the office.

 

They find the man. Matt beats the shit out of him, and Foggy certainly doesn’t intervene. Doesn’t even pretend to play good cop this time. Just tells him, “You fucked up. The Kitchen doesn’t take kindly to one of its own being stabbed. Do better.”

 

He finds the criminals are often just as responsive to his Dad Voice as they are to physical pain. Not tonight; the junkie just lets out another sob before slumping into the couch again.

 

They don’t turn in for the night, then. They go to the warehouse he mentioned, and there’s a man there. A warrior- a ninja straight out of an anime, with a strange, hooked, blade.

 

And he beats the  _ shit  _ out of them. 

 

Foggy ducks the first swing, which does a fantastic job of clipping his wings. If they were more than wire and cloth, he would have never gotten off the ground again. He ducks the next swing and tries to get close. Instead, he’s forced to block the hit with his flagpole, and it leaves a deep gash on one side of the pole. 

 

Matt jerks back as Foggy tries to sweep the ninja’s feet, and Foggy glances up to see a deep rip through his uniform above one half of his chest. It’s not the vital one, though, which is. It’s good. (God, he never thought he’d call a chest wound good.)

 

He pays for his momentary distraction as he feels fire spread through his shoulder; he looks down and sees the tip of the ninja’s weird hooked blade poking out through the other side. Faintly, he thinks,  _ Huh. I’ve been impaled. Badass. _ This, however, is violently overshadowed by the other half of his brain, the rational and reasonable side, screaming at him to  _ get the fuck out of there. _

 

He yanks it out of his shoulder from behind him. The ninja tries to hit him with a kick, and he springboards himself backwards on the air; he lets the flagpole take the blow from the swinging chain again, which wraps itself around the flagpole. The ninja  _ yanks  _ on it, and he lets go. It’s not worth it.

 

He dives down for a sweeping blow to the ninja’s legs, and the ninja jumps it, placing a foot firmly on the injured left shoulder and  _ pressing,  _ and his world goes white and then black and his ears ring. His vision fuzzes when he regains it, and he watches from the floor as the blood spreads across his chest, staining the blue-silver a muddled brown.

 

“Angel!” Matt yells across the room, his voice pitched high with fear, but Foggy can’t figure out why. What-

 

And then Matt  _ screams,  _ full of pain and rage, and  _ keeps screaming.  _ Foggy’s running across the air before he knows it, throwing himself onto the ninja’s back and willing the air to  _ push  _ with him, to shove the ninja down.

 

Surprisingly, the air acquiesces. It doesn’t go quite as planned; the ninja goes flying instead, into some barrels, and gets up, shaking his head dazedly.

 

It’s enough, though; Matt picks up the discarded flagpole from the ground and throws it like a javelin towards the ceiling, where the light fixture is. The room cascades into darkness with a shower of sparks, which promptly lights some gasoline and- 

  
_ Oh. _

 

Foggy has a blind moment of  _ fuck, he can’t die, _ and makes a vague waving gesture. The ninja goes flying out the window into the river.

 

He can feel exhaustion setting into him, bone-deep, and keeps himself upright with sheer force of will. Matt looks  _ awful;  _ every inch of him is covered in blood and there’s a gaping wound in his stomach. And then Fisk is there. When did he get there?

 

“Thank you,” Fisk rumbles. “Nobu was becoming an issue. I appreciate you removing him from concern.”

 

Fisk keeps talking, about how he tricked them, and Foggy’s just. Foggy’s so  _ tired.  _

 

He makes a vague  _ come-hither  _ gesture with one hand, because it feels right to his instincts and that’s kind of how he learned to fly, so it probably extends to his new powers. Turns out he’s right; Matt crashes into his side, stumbling as though pushed, and Foggy grabs him by the arm with his good hand and flies out the window.

 

It’s  _ hard _ to keep flying. It’s hard to keep Matt aloft along with him, and he’s struggling. Matt’s bleeding and he’s bleeding and they both look like shit, and he doesn’t even know where he’s flying until he’s there.

 

He collapses on the fire escape with a  _ clang  _ and the thud of Matt atop him and then he passes the fuck out.

 

\-----

 

Karen’s there when he wakes up, bathed in the sunlight now streaming through her windows. “You are a fucking  _ idiot. _ ”

 

Foggy tries to sit up and immediately almost passes out again. “Whafuck?”

 

He’s on a couch, and his mask is still on. Matt’s on a pad of blankets; his is still on, too, and he’s covered in bandages, like, practically mummified. “You’re really hurt. Don’t get up.”

 

“Mm. No shit. Devil?”

 

“Your boyfriend’s been having seizures.”

 

_ That  _ gets his attention. He sits up with his good arm, the one that hasn’t had the shoulder torn through, and glances over to Matt’s pile of blankets. “Devil. Hey, Devil.”   
  


There’s no response. “I found you collapsed out on the fire escape, covered in your blood and his. I figured you wouldn’t want to go to a hospital, but…” She looks ill at ease. “Who did this, Angel?”

 

“Ninja,” Foggy says. “Fisk has them on payroll now. I met him.”

 

“Fisk?” She looks taken aback and there’s a glint of fear in her eyes. “And you survived?”

 

He raises his good hand to do air quotes. “Survived.” He touches the bandages; they’re done well. “You do nursing in your free time?”

 

She looks distinctly uncomfortable now, and he says, “Never mind. Thank you.”

 

“What was I supposed to do?” she asks, “leave you to bleed out on my fire escape?”

 

“Call the police,” he suggested.

 

“You both saved my life at one point or another,” she points out. “But you also both beat people up every night. What was I supposed to do, unmask you and leave you for the cops to arrest? Not with that shoulder. Whatever the ninja did, the Devil’s got a nasty wound in his stomach.”

 

“We should have picked up our new uniforms first,” Foggy says. “We have a guy making us protective uniforms. They were supposed to be done today.”

 

And then, “ _ Fuck, _ I had a not-date. What time is it?”

 

“1 pm,” she tells him. “You were out for a while. But it’s okay, it’s a Sunday.”   
  


“Devil missed Mass,” he says. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

 

“Mass,” she repeats. “The devil goes to Mass.”

  
“Well, he’s not actually the Devil. he’s an enhanced guy. Same as me.”

 

“Huh,” she says. And then, “ _ Huh, _ ” and Foggy knows he might have fucked up a little. “You don’t happen to know a guy named Franklin Nelson, do you?”

 

Foggy tries to school his features into a confused look. “Uh, who? Oh, you mean Foggy. The lawyer, right?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she says. “The one who’s the same height, build, and has the same voice as you. And who happens to be a ray of sunshine working beside a darker, broodier, Catholic guy who doesn’t need eye holes in his mask because he’s blind.”

 

Foggy groaned. “Fuck reporters.”

 

They sit in comfortable silence, but Foggy keeps thinking back to Matt. Matt’s  _ hurt,  _ and lying on the ground so still, and he looks pale as ice. Foggy gets up stiffly-  _ ow _ \- and sits beside him, in the nest of blankets.

 

“I said  _ don’t get up, _ ” she says, but there’s no power behind it. “So you guys are…?”

 

“Vigilantes, yeah,” Foggy sighs.

 

“No, I mean, in relation to each other. ‘Cause you didn’t exactly object when I called you boyfriends earlier.”

 

He hesitates and she quickly amended, “N-nevermind, you don’t have to answer, it’s fine.”

 

“No, it’s. We’re not boyfriends.”

 

“But you wish you could be,” Karen guesses.

 

Foggy slumps. “I don’t know. Yeah, probably.”

 

Because, here’s the thing, it’s not like he’d be  _ opposed  _ to the notion. Matt’s cute- not cute, hot, really- but it’s weird to come to terms with the fact that he’s thinking of him like that. Because the more he thinks about it, he realizes he’s thought of Matt similarly to people he’s thought of as… just  _ really, really  _ wanting to be friends with them. The thing that tips him off this time is that he’s  _ already  _ friends with Matt. He’s partners in law and crime with Matt. It didn’t take a  _ huge  _ stretch of the imagination for him to realize he wants to be partners in romance, too.

 

But now that he thinks about it? Maybe that time he followed Dave Jameson around for weeks in high school like a lost puppy wasn’t just him… thinking Dave was cool. When he got sweaty and red-faced every time he talked to Markus Lander from senior year? That might not have just been his allergies to the kid’s cat. (That didn’t even make sense; his parents have had cats since they were teens. He’s never been allergic to cats.) The way he idolized Sam Perennel from his first year of Columbia might have been him impressed by his (mediocre) debate skills, or maybe he wanted to get in his pants. 

 

“Probably?” Karen asks teasingly.

 

“I thought I was straight,” he says, hiding his face in his hands. “I’m not. I’m not sure anymore. But I still like girls??? So…”

 

“So you’re bi,” Karen says. “Or you’re just queer, that’s okay too. You can even label yourself heteroflexible if you want. Honestly, you don’t need a label if you don’t want one. I don’t use one.”

 

Huh. “You like..?”

 

“I like nobody,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, I’d be open to a romantic relationship if the right person came along, but I don’t really feel physical attraction to… anyone. Some people label that asexual and demiromantic. I don’t label it as anything. Humans aren’t made to be squashed into boxes.” She hesitates, then adds, “Some people feel better with labels, though. They use it as a way to explain their experiences, or just to make it easier on themself, give themself a sense of belonging.”

 

“I was supposed to talk to Marci today,” he says. “To get her to explain all this to me.”

 

“Well, now you’ve got me,” she says, and they sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching Matt’s shallow breathing. And then, after a minute, “But you should probably text Marci and tell her you’re skipping your date. We gotta come up with a plausible cover story.”

 

Foggy thinks for a second.  _ Drama/Improv class, don’t fail me now. _ “Car accident,” he suggested. “The three of us were coming back from Josie’s and someone ran a red.”

 

“Why wouldn’t you press charges?” Karen asks. 

 

“He… was distracted. His mom just died and he was driving back from the hospital.”

 

“Brett would call bullshit in an instant,” Karen tells him.

 

“You’re right. Uh, maybe someone tried to mug Matt, and I tried to intervene?” Foggy suggests. “And I was in too much pain to get the police.”   
  


“Hospital,” Karen reminds him. “Why wouldn’t you go to the hospital?”

 

He laughs. “Oh, well, you know how Matt is about anything medical.” Karen gives him a Look, and he amends it. “And besides, the Devil had my back. He just stitched it up for me, right there in the alleyway.”

 

“Anyone who looks too close at it is gonna call major bullshit,” Karen says, shaking her head. “But I don’t think I have anything better.”

 

He carefully maneuvers himself down so that he’s resting his head on Matt’s shoulder. “Guess we’re working with that, then.”

 

Karen nods, disappears into her kitchen.

 

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he’s just so tired-

 

\------

 

When he wakes up, Matt’s awake, too.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Did I wake you up?”

 

“Nnn,” Foggy replies intelligently, because Matt’s warm and comfortable and he’s so tired, and his arm hurts so,  _ so  _ much.

 

“I was just talking with Matt,” Karen says, “and apparently you  _ let the ninja go. _ ”

 

“Flung ‘m in’a the riv’r,” he mumbles.

 

“Flung him in-? With that shoulder?” she asks, incredulous.

 

“Nah. With, uh, with air.” He goes to move something but finds he can’t; he knows he did last night, though. “Dunno how. S’how we got ‘ere, kin’a.”

 

She hands him a glass of water. As he drinks-  _ wow  _ he was thirsty - Matt starts talking, and his voice is hoarse. “Foggy kind of made a flicking gesture with his other hand? The guy- Nobu- just… flew out the window. Crashed straight through it. I heard him hit the water.”

 

“I didn’t know you had… aerokinesis,” Karen says, with a pause. Foggy doesn’t know if a word exists for that. He guesses if anyone would know it was Karen.

 

“I didn’t either,” he says, putting his glass down. “It just kind of happened.”

 

“Just kind of happened,” she repeats. “Just kind of happened- what is your  _ life, _ Foggy?”   
  


“I ask myself that every day,” he says with what he hopes is a thoughtful inflection.

 

“And you,” she says, turning on Matt. He cowers away from her, which would be funny if he didn’t know there was probably some trauma or another fueling it. But all she says is, “You have to learn to hide these better. I’m signing you up for makeup classes, my house every time you get hurt, mandatory. Franklin, you don’t get out of that, either. I’ve seen those bruises. Also, both of you are getting your quote-unquote bulletproof suits as soon as Matt can physically walk, and you’re teaching me to fight.”   
  


Foggy raises his good hand. “Objection.”

 

“What is it, Mr. Nelson?”

 

“I’m a green belt in Ms. Wing’s mixed martial arts studio. I’m not qualified to teach you.”

 

“Sustained. Mr. Murdock will fulfill those duties.”

 

“I’m only a…” his voice fizzles out, and Foggy laughs delightedly.

 

“You’re only a what?”   
  


“Nothing,” he says. “Never mind.”

 

“Go on and tell the nice lady about how many black belts you have,” Foggy grins. Matt looks suitably cowed.

 

“...Three,” he says. “In kenpo, jiu-jitsu, and taekwondo. But St- but he wasn’t a  _ real  _ teacher, so it wouldn’t count-”

 

“So I’ll have a perfectly suitable teacher,” Karen interrupts, and they laugh, and Foggy glances at Matt and thinks that he looks  _ beautiful _ .

 

For all that they’re bandaged and bloody and bruised it’s not a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four things to cover in the notes:
> 
> 1- I'm so, so sorry this chapter took me so long to get out there. My other fic took priority and I couldn't think of _anything_ for it, and I'm sorry about it. I hope y'all like this chap tho! I had a lot of fun writing it!
> 
> 2- Bad news: I'm taking a hiatus for camp, which runs until August 4, so the next update should be out by August 14. I'm sorry about it, y'all, but this one can't be avoided. I love my camps and I'm not ditching them to write for y'all, sorry.
> 
> 3-Good news: I can probably at least work on some chapters while I'm in Saratoga, though Charlton might be tricky. I can definitely reply to kudos and comments, though, and I'll be more inspired when I come back!
> 
> 4- As always, kudos and comments (the latter especially) is my caffeine! Keep me awake while I'm away at Skidmore, will y'all? I love you guys <3


	6. In Which Foggy Comes To Terms With Some Stuff

The TV the next day shows the gala. 

 

One newscaster says, “Some accounts online are mentioning the likelihood that it was the Angel and Devil of Hell’s Kitchen that caused the possible food poisoning to several guests, as esteemed businessman Wilson Fisk was present at the benefit-”

 

Karen turns it off with a click. They’re still at her house; she refused to let them leave when they tried, because “dammit, guys, you’re still  _ actively bleeding, _ sit the fuck down for a couple days.”

 

She sits down on the couch. Foggy resists the urge to try and sit up to face her- the last time he did that, she yelled at him to “stay horizontal.”

 

“I found something,” she says. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

 

Matt  _ does  _ sit up at this, and Foggy can’t resist a smile as Karen annoyedly pushes him back down by the forehead. “Horizontal, Matthew. I found a misfiled scrap of paper at the County Clerk’s. A marriage certificate for his mother, Marlene.”

 

“We’re grasping at straws, Karen,” Matt says, morosely trying to roll over and failing spectacularly. 

 

“No we’re not,” she says, and her voice is filled with confidence. “Because the marriage certificate isn’t to Fisk’s father.”

 

Foggy sits up at this, using his good arm. “What?” Karen flicks his forehead, so he adds, “Come on, I didn’t nearly get disemboweled.” 

 

“Oh yeah,” she drawls, “because having a mangled, dislocated shoulder and about a hundred and twelve bruises is so much better. Anyway, the marriage certificate is dated two years after all the news reports say she should’ve died.”

 

“It’s not much,” Matt says doubtfully.

 

“But it’s a start,” Foggy says. 

 

“Is she still alive?” Matt asks. “Foggy and I can-”

 

“Foggy and you can keep lying right there and giving yourselves time to heal so I don’t get two more murder charges dropped on my head,” Karen says, and Foggy realizes that Karen is literally acting like his mom. Well. One of his moms. The other one’s kind of a wreck. More Matt-like. “I already went, anyway. With Ben.”

 

Well, okay, never mind then! Maybe she’s more like Anna than he thought she was. 

 

“You did what?” he says aloud.

 

“Karen!” Matt says, with that hint of Matt panic he would always get when Foggy told him about almost slipping on ice on his way to Torts. “Fisk could have people watching.”

 

“I know,” she says, picking up the coffee from her coffee table and taking a sip that looks to Foggy more like she’s chugging half the mug.

 

“You should’ve-” Matt tries, but he cuts himself off. Foggy recognizes that face, too- it’s the patented Matt Murdock Backed Himself Into A Corner face. He claims he doesn’t have one. Foggy knows better.

 

“Did you talk to Fisk’s mom? God, what would that even be like?” he asks. He’s imagining a slightly shorter but just as large woman, all charm and slick charisma.

 

“Yeah, but she’s not all there.” Karen’s face grows serious. “Listen, what she told me about Fisk - apparently he bashed his own father’s head in with a hammer.”

 

The room goes very still. Matt stops fiddling with his bandages, even; Foggy blinks twice. He’d thought of Fisk as someone who didn’t want to dirty his own hands. What was this all of a sudden? “Holy shit,” he says, because that pretty much sums up what he’s thinking.

 

“She helped him cover it up,” Karen says.

 

“He was a minor,” Matt says. “We can’t charge him.”

 

“It’s not going to be enough to put him in jail, no.” She gets up, refills her coffee mug. Foggy can see her hand shaking a little bit. He wonders how many cups she’s had today.

 

“But it doesn’t line up with what Fisk’s been saying, the evidence he’s been doctoring online,” Foggy says, the glimmer of an idea coming to his mind. “It might be enough to get people to look at him more closely. Even if nobody believes him about the two of us being psychos.”

 

“Public opinion is swaying towards him,” Karen adds. “With the news about the bombings and everything still fresh in peoples’ memories. We can pull it back our way by exposing him.”

 

“From an old woman,” Matt says, and there’s doubt in his voice.

 

“It’s his mother,” Foggy argues. “Not just a random old woman.” He knows it’ll be an uphill battle, but…

 

There’s a knocking at the door, and Karen stands up. Looks through the peephole. Turns to them. “It’s a woman. Long black hair, Latina.”

 

“Claire,” Matt says. Foggy doesn’t know the name. “She helps me. Let her in.”

 

Karen hesitantly opens the door to reveal a woman matching the description. “Hi, I’m- I got a text from Mike.”

 

“Who?”

 

“It’s my codename,” Matt calls from inside. “My, uh, codename under the codename.”

 

Karen groans so loud even Foggy, without fancy super hearing, can hear it. “What’s the box for?”

 

“Medical kit. I have to keep it unlabelled because this idiot makes me steal from the hospit-who are you?”

 

She’s just looked over at Foggy, and he blinks. Did Matt not- “I’m Foggy. I’m, uh, I guess I’m the angel.”

 

“Nice to meet you. I don’t suppose you’re completely healthy? Mike, you said you ripped some stitches…”

 

“You ripped stitches??” Karen exclaims. “You could have  _ told  _ me.” 

 

“It’s okay, you get to see me shirtless again,” Matt says, with a shameless grin on his face. Foggy feels his guts twist even though he wasn’t the one stabbed through the stomach. Karen has an expression much like she’s swallowed a lemon. Claire, for her part, just gives a wry smile. 

 

“Look, I know you’re not going to stop,” she says, already unwrapping the bloody dressings on his back. Matt’s sat up again. Foggy flicks his eyes over to Karen, who exchanges a glance with him. It’s very much a glance of  _ what the fuck. _

 

“Not until this city is safe from people like Fisk,” Matt confirms. 

 

“Which is never,” Claire sighs. “You’re the same way, right, Foggy? Always is, with these stupid heroes.” 

 

Foggy opens his mouth to interject, but she keeps talking, so he closes it, feeling almost betrayed.  _ I’m the sidekick now, _ he realizes.

 

They’re talking about loyalty and the city, and he and Karen are… just watching mutely. He gives her a glance, as though to say, “When did this happen?” and she gives him one back that’s full of vexation.

 

He’s filled the sidekick role before. In college. mostly; Matt was the master debater, the poor blind orphan who tugged at the hearts of women and men alike, content to date them and then to break their heart in a matter of days. Foggy knew he was good at law- he graduated cum laude, after all- but Matt graduated  _ summa  _ cum laude. Foggy had always been in his shadow.

 

He’d almost thought he could be the protagonist of his own story. He was a vigilante. A costumed hero. He could one day be one of the greats, even. He’d thought he was the Devil’s partner. 

 

Apparently, he was not.

 

_ So, _ he thinks to himself, watching the two talk philosophy of vigilantism as though they live in a world apart, as Karen silently leaves the living room.  _ I have two ways to play this. _

 

He could either take the high route and be the best damn sidekick he could be, carry Matt as much as he could through everything, be content to leave the limelight alone. Or he could argue with Matt. Fight and claw until he had his spot next to Matt on the pedestal. 

 

Well, he’d already been doing the former. All he had to do now was add Matt’s vigilante career to the mix. 

 

He tunes back into the conversation just in time to hear Claire resignedly say, “The only thing I remember from Sunday school is the martyrs. The saints. The saviors. They all end up the same way.” 

 

She pauses for emphasis. “Bloody and alone.”

 

“But I’m not a martyr. Or a saint, or a savior,” Matty says. “I’m bloody, but I’m not alone. After all, I’ve got Foggy here with me.”

 

_ Oh, fuck. _

 

His heart melted just a little bit.

 

\------

 

By the time noon rolls around, Claire’s said her goodbyes and left. They lay there in silence for a bit before Foggy notes that Karen had not left her bedroom in a while and maybe someone should check on her? He volunteers himself for the job, of course, and pops his head in. She’s on the phone, and seems agitated; Foggy leaves her alone. 

 

He goes back into the living room, arm hanging limply at his side, and finds it devoid of all Matthews. The blanket nest is faintly bloodstained but vacant. 

 

Oookay.

 

Well, now seems like as good a time as ever to grab his suit. He puts his arm in a makeshift sling with a long length of gauze to explain to others why he can’t move it, then covers his face with his mask - the costume is stained to shit and probably close to useless at this point, with the amount of rips and tears it has, but it’s okay, he has a t-shirt and some sweatpants on and those will hide his figure well enough - and lets the air buoy him up, flies off to where he remembers Melvin’s workshop. He knocks at the garage door.

 

“It’s the Angel,” he calls inside.

 

The garage door opens, and Foggy glances around- not a lot has changed, except for the suits. There are more of them now.

 

“Mister Fisk says I can’t work for you two anymore,” Melvin says. His eyes are painted with fear, flickering every way nervously. 

 

“You… you can’t?” Foggy asks, furrowing his eyebrows. Fuck, did he throw the costumes away? Does Fisk know that Foggy and Matt are getting costumes?

 

He shakes his head violently. “He says I can’t work for anyone anymore. He’s- He’s gonna be mad, you’re not even supposed to be here, he’s- he’s gonna hurt her-” Melvin’s voice shakes, his whole body trembling in fear. 

 

Something’s happened. “Melvin, it’s okay, it’s- it’s okay. Do you want to sit down? You said Fisk is going to hurt someone- who is it? I can protect them, me and the Devil-”

 

“Betsy,” he sobs.

 

Ooookay.

 

“Who’s Betsy?” Foggy asks. “Is she your partner?”

 

“She. She helps me when I get confused,” Melvin explains, a little more sedate. “She wants me to be good, so I tried to make good things, but Fisk- Fisk says no, comes in and tells me I’m not to make anything for anyone else now.”

 

Foggy thinks he understands a little more now. He sits down on the garage floor, makes himself a little less threatening. “I’m sorry, Melvin. Fisk has hurt me and my friends, too. He hurt the Devil really bad a couple of days ago. But I can protect Betsy if you can provide me our suits.”

 

“You’ll protect Betsy?” His eyes well up with tears, and he nods quickly and rushes to a drawer.

 

The suits and helmets are pulled out almost reverentially. Matt’s is mostly black with red accents- Melvin explains that the black’ll stop bullets, but the red will stop most knives depending on the angle. The helmet is all red, but Melvin assures him it’ll stop bullets too. 

 

His own suit is a pale blue, with silver accents. The same instructions - blue will stop bullets, silver is less protective.

 

The wings are flat against the back, jutting out to either side a little, and Melvin removes them by pulling them straight off the back of the suit. He twirls them a bit - they’re attached with a pole- and then takes the pole off, reattaching the wings to the back of the suit instead. He shows off how the pole can bend and lock in place - “I didn’t know if the bend in yours was intentional or not” - and then demonstrates each wing individually. “They can take a beating, Mr. Angel, or you can use ‘em as weapons. Made out of the same stuff as riot shields, they are, with metal ‘round the edges.” 

 

The helmet is a thing of beauty. It’s a slightly darker blue, speckled with the same silver, like stars. The angel to Matt’s devil. No horns, though. 

 

He almost cries on the spot. 

 

Instead, he grins. “It’s beautiful, Melvin. Thank you so much. Thank you. Can I hug you?”

 

“No, thanks,” Melvin says, looking greatly cheered up. “High five, though.”

 

They high five. Melvin grabs a trash bag to put the suits in, and Foggy says his goodbyes and zips to Matt’s apartment.

 

He neatly folds the suit atop Matt’s coffee table- it's awkward with only the use of one arm- then sets the helmet on top of it. Matt’s Braille paper and stylus is nearby, and Foggy punches a quick message for him:

 

⠞⠕⠀⠋⠊⠛⠓⠞⠀⠋⠊⠎⠅⠀⠺⠊⠞⠓ -- “to fight fisk with.”

 

He flies back to Karen’s to let her know where he went and to collect his ruined suit, but the apartment is empty. 

 

Huh.

 

Oh well, that means he can do more work tonight.

 

\-----

 

He walks past what used to be Elena’s building the next day.

 

They’ve started tearing it down.

 

He averts his eyes and tries to keep a straight and unbothered face.

 

Instead, he focuses on the person in front of him. They’re blind, and toting a backpack.

 

Now that he looks at it, there’s another blind, backpack-wearing person a block ahead.

 

...Huh.

 

Well, Karen probably doesn’t expect him at work anyway.

 

He darts into an alley, yanks his mask on, and takes off to trail them.

 

\------

 

They both enter a building, and he texts Karen,  _ Time sensitive operation I gotta watch. Might be late or awol. _

 

Moments later, Matt lands by his side. He’s not wearing a mask.

 

“You too?” Foggy asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re hurt worse than I am.” Foggy gestures to his limp arm with one hand. “Did you even go home last night?”

 

His silence is enough to answer. Foggy follows the lines of his body with his eyes, trying to tell if he’s eaten enough. All it does is make his cheeks redden. To diffuse it, he says, “You’re in street clothes.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“We can come back tonight,” Foggy says.

 

“You were going to do it now.”

 

“I was,” he admits. “But you’re here and I’m not gonna tell you that this is something I want to do alone or some bullshit like that. I don’t want you to get hurt more.”

 

“I meditated,” Matt says like that explains everything. “Foggy, I can smell the drugs on these people.”

 

“You can smell them tonight,” Foggy says.

 

They watch together - well, for some value of the word “watch,” Matt isn’t doing much watching - as a black car pulls up and a couple people get out. They use some sort of secret knock to get into the building. Matt cocks his head, and Foggy knows he’s committed it to memory when his lips turn upward. 

 

They’re carrying weapons, Foggy notes. Some sort of assault rifle, maybe. He doesn’t know guns very well- all he knows is that they hurt a lot to get hit with.

 

“Tonight, then,” Matt concedes.

 

_ Yessssss. _ “Okay. To work.” 

 

\------

 

Karen turns a questioning eye towards them as soon as they walk in. Foggy notices she’s paler than usual. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her mascara hasn’t moved a drop, so he figures it’s probably not a huge deal.

 

“The Chinese. We’ll fix it tonight,” Matt says.

 

“It alarmed me because it’s an operation using vulnerable people,” Foggy explains. “We’re going to try and shut it down tonight.”   
  


“Your costume,” Karen says.

 

“I lived with seven younger family members, I can repair clothes,” he says. “And blood’s not hard to get out if you know how.” He actually already has the clothes soaking in hydrogen peroxide. He hopes it didn’t accidentally bleach them or something like that.

 

“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

 

“I promise you’ll see me again,” Foggy says. It’s a hedge, but Karen seems to accept it. She takes a breath and sits down.

 

They work. After all, despite the crazy double lives they all seem to lead, this was a workplace.

 

He worries about her. She seems fine, but half an hour after their lunch break, he takes a peek over to her; she’s got her head in her hands, and she’s taking shaky breath after shaky breath. He fires her a text.

 

FN: u ok?

 

She looks up, picks up the phone with shaking hands. The tremors are so visible he can see them from his desk in his office.

 

KP: yeah. yeah im fine.

 

FN: kare

 

FN: u kno if anything happens u can talk 2 me

 

FN: me n matt have ur back

 

KP: im fine. had a rough night.

 

FN: wanna talk abt it?

 

KP: no.

 

FN: ok

 

FN: u wanna take the day?   
  


KP: i got it. im fine.

 

FN: ok. do what u have 2 do to keep urself safe, ok?

 

He turns back to work.

 

\-----

 

That evening, he takes the time to patch the suit. It looks rather Frankenstein when he’s done, but it looks better and less like he’d just been hit by a truck, so.

 

They sit on the same ledge they’d met this morning, hands nearly touching. 

 

“The suit smells better,” Matt says.

 

“That’s your way of telling me it smells like hydrogen peroxide and vinegar?” Foggy asks, amused.

 

“Better than blood.”

 

Foggy has the urge to poke him in the shoulder. He doesn’t, because Matt’s just been nearly disemboweled, but…

 

The urge is great.

 

He stays there. “Are we waiting for any signal in particular?”

 

“Your heart rate’s elevated,” Matt explains. “I’m waiting for you to calm down.”

 

Foggy laughs shakily. “It’ll take alcohol for that to happen, and I’m not fighting tipsy.”

 

He pauses. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

 

Foggy hops down first, and Matt’s quick on his heels; Foggy flings one guard into the other. Matt grabs their guns, disarms them, and whaps both upside the head with one of the guns. He tosses them aside and did the knock.

 

The guard pokes his head out, and Foggy grabs him, chokes him out, and lets him slump to the floor. They dart inside. 

 

Matt takes one of the guards out as Foggy flies overhead, taking a headcount. Probably nearly fifty workers, each of them blind; only one or two guards, armed. He relays this as quietly as he could, knowing Matt will pick it up. 

 

“There’s a symbol on the baggies of heroin,” he adds. “I’ll draw it out for you later.”

 

The guard says something in Mandarin, facing where Matt had been a second ago. Foggy doesn’t know where Matt is now; he hovers in the air in the corner, nervously. He has to do something to draw the attention from Matt.

 

Foggy flicks his fingers and knocks one of the bags of heroin to the ground. The workers don’t appear to notice. The guard, though, jumps, wheels around, and Matt’s there an instant later to hit him in the back of the head with one of his sticks. Foggy makes sure he falls quietly enough that nobody else is disturbed.

 

Matt pads through the rows silently, testing. The people are silent, hard at work. One person, with a full backpack, walks straight past Matt.

 

Foggy quietly trips the man, steals the stick he was using, and drags him into a closet. Those drugs will never reach the street.

 

Someone had seen Matt.

 

There’s yelling in Mandarin. Foggy darts out to find an older woman on the catwalk, blind people swarming Matt. He dives and grabs Matt around the chest with his good arm, pulling him up and out of the situation.  _ Best sidekick, _ he reminds himself. Shots are being fired and lighting the heroin on fire; Foggy drops Matt and releases the man from the closet, taking the backpack and flinging it into the flames.

 

“You took their eyes,” Matt says, panting.

 

“No,” the woman says. “They blinded themselves.”

 

“Why would they do that?” Matt says, and Foggy mentally facepalms.  _ There’s no time for questions right now, Matt.  _ He wonders if Matt just can’t feel the heat of the fire.

 

It probably has something to do with how high Foggy’s flying, actually, and the fact that how heat rises. He drops to the ground behind Matt.

 

“Because they have faith,” the woman says, locking eyes with Foggy.

 

“In you and your drugs?” Matt asks, oblivious. Foggy tries not to look away from the flames reflected in her eyes, even though she shouldn’t be able to see his through the mask.

 

“In something beyond the… distractions of your world,” she says. Her eyes flicker to Matt on the word  _ distractions, _ then back to Foggy. “You have taken it from them. Now, they will have nothing.”

 

His skin crawls even in the heat. Matt, undeterred, approaches. “You’re the one that’s going to tell me about Fisk.”

 

She kicks him square in the chest and he falls back into Foggy’s arm. He catches him and, without thinking, steps between the two, holding the stick out like his old flagpole - the one he lost at the pier.

 

It wobbles without his other hand to balance it. She lets out a short bark of laughter. 

 

“One of you has sense,” she says, and vanishes before his eyes.

 

There’s no time to freak out or wonder where she’s gone. The other people are scared, terrified - they can’t see and they don’t exactly have super senses. Foggy starts to lead them out; Matt takes one of the firearms and shoots the water pipes. The fallen guard struggles to his feet and yells instructions in Mandarin, taking Foggy’s job. Foggy calls 911 while they emerge from the warehouse. His voice is hoarse from smoke, and he kicks through a window to escape.

 

Matt’s already outside, and beckons Foggy to follow as he runs. Foggy doesn’t have another choice. He follows from the skies.

 

Matt runs into a cop.

 

A Brett cop, to be exact.

 

“Police! Don’t you move!” 

 

Matt raises his hands. Foggy panics - he can’t exactly just fight Brett. He’s known him since they were children. 

 

He drops in front of Matt, one hand still in the sling. 

 

“You’re defending him?” Brett says, incredulously. “You’re supposed to be good cop here, man. The Angel to his Devil or whatever. He killed Blake and he shot a bunch’a cops, what are you doin’?” 

 

Foggy doesn't even have to change his voice that much. He just pitches it up a little; the smoke does the rest of his job for him. “He didn’t do that.”

 

Behind him, Matt’s hand inches towards a plank of wood on the ground. He puts a warning hand behind him, and Matt changes tactics. “Blake and Hoffman were dirty. Worked for Wilson Fisk.”

 

“The dude that tried to call y’all psychopaths?” Foggy can’t see Brett’s face in the light, but he’s certain that his eyebrows are creeping higher and higher up his face.

 

“Yes. Along with a lot of others at your precinct.”

 

“He’s not the bad guy, Officer,” Foggy rasps.

 

“Then what are you?” Brett asks.

 

“We’re trying to help,” Foggy says, as Matt cocks his head to the side and promptly flees up the side of a storage container. Brett just stares.

 

Foggy follows, as usual. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back babey!!!
> 
> im also working on a sequel to "and he shall appear" so that should be fun uwu
> 
> as always, comments & kudos are my caffeine, keep me up all night ;)


	7. In Which Matt Is A Weird-Ass Human Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey,,, uh,,,, so I know it's been literally like six months. I suck. Sophomore year of high school sucks tbh. If you're a freshman, just... idk, drop out. It's not worth it, fam. I'm so tired.  
> Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, I suck. Right. I have no good excuses. I just... haven't had the energy. I'm sorry.  
> Enjoy the belated chapter?

The call comes that night - well, it’s a text, really. But Foggy thinks it would be better suited as a phone call, so that’s how he’s choosing to think of it.

 

It’s a single article, run by the  _ Bulletin. _

 

“Former reporter Benjamin Urich, 68, was found dead in his apartment last night…”

 

Foggy goes through all of Urich’s old articles in the gossip section. He prints them out, along with pictures of him, Matt, and Spidey - all in costume. He pins them to a poster board with red string connecting them to each other.

 

It feels like the sort of thing Urich would have wanted them to do.

 

They go to the funeral, afterward. Neither Matt nor Foggy know-  _ knew  _ him very well, and it’s an open casket, so Foggy goes up to pay his respects with Matt hanging onto his arm.

 

Matt can’t see it, but Foggy immediately notices the copious amount of makeup around his neck.

 

They return to Karen. Foggy stays tacit about the definite coverup job; it’s a funeral, after all. Matt peels off to talk to his priest for a second, then comes back. They watch as they lower his body into the near-frozen dirt.

 

Foggy can’t help but lean on Matt’s shoulder a second. He’s so  _ tired. _

 

Wind whips her scarf around her neck as Karen says, quietly, “It’s not fair.”

 

“It’s not,” Foggy agrees, quietly.

 

“I don’t understand why these people have to be taken from us so soon,” she says, and Foggy knows she’s saying it not because she needs an answer, but because she needs to say it.

 

“I guess Heaven wanted him enough that they had to tear him from us before it was his time,” Matt says. “I don’t know, I’m - I’m trying to justify something that doesn’t want to be justified.”

 

“It just isn’t fair,” Karen says.

 

“Why don’t you go home, get some rest?” Matt tries. Foggy thinks it’s a fair suggestion.

 

“I can’t,” she admits. “Every time I close my eyes, I see - what if he finds out I was with Ben at Saint Benezet?” 

 

Foggy exchanges a one-sided glance with Matt, who, naturally, can’t reciprocate. “How? I mean, the media barely mentioned it because Fisk’s got money. He may not have public opinion, but money can buy anyone over.”

 

“I don’t know. The workers, or something. Just- what if they find out, too?”

 

Foggy pauses a second, turning an idea over in his mind. Karen’s scared of sleeping in her house, but if they try and make the memory of sleep linked less with her being attacked...

 

“Why don’t we all sleep over at someone’s house? Just for the night. Like we’re kids or something - watch a movie, share stupid secrets, bring a blanket and pillow and eat popcorn and drink beer. Have a night to relax, to remember Ben. Keep each other safe.”

 

The others consider this for a moment.

 

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Matt concedes.

 

\-----

 

They have the sleepover.

 

Karen shows up first, with a duffel bag at her side. She’s wearing pajama pants and a too-big t-shirt; she’s obviously just showered. She unpacks her bag and he catches a glimpse of a steel barrel in it.

 

He only hopes she doesn’t have to use it.

 

Matt follows after, with a small bag containing literally just his toiletries.

 

“Matt, where are your pillow and blanket?” 

 

Matt doesn’t have a pillow and blanket. “I’ll just sleep like this,” he says.

 

“Matt, where are your pajamas?”

 

He gestures to what he’s wearing - a Columbia hoodie and jeans.

 

“ _ Jeans? _ ”

 

“What’s wrong with them?”

 

Foggy huffs.  _ Honestly, _ the nerve - does he not have any sweatpants anymore? Heathen. He ducks into his bedroom for a moment, yanks a pair of his softest sweatpants out of the drawer, and re-emerges to fling them at Matt, who lets them hit him in the face. (Foggy’s not naive enough to think he’s surprised.)

 

Karen raises her eyebrows. “I knew you were weird, but sleeping in jeans, Matt, that’s a whole other level.”

 

“What’s wrong with it?” he mumbles defensively, and Foggy thinks,  _ Oh fuck, that’s really cute. _

 

He looks away hastily. “I have  _ Legally Blonde  _ downloaded, we can laugh at the questionable legality?”   
  


“Oh come on, Legally Blonde’s not that bad, Suits is way worse,” Karen protests.

 

“Yeah, but I have Legally Blonde downloaded and not Suits, so.”

 

They set up on the couch, Foggy’s computer open in front of them. The lights were off already - he can’t really pay for much electricity now, so he tends to save it for charging his phone and laptop. Karen and Foggy spread the blanket over all three. Matt’s in the middle, and Foggy’s got a glass of water on the table because he’s gonna be providing the audio description.

 

They’re resolutely not touching for a little while.

 

Foggy gets up to make popcorn, and when he comes back, popcorn bowl in hand (and a bag of chips too for afterward) he settles in a little closer to Matt, their sides just barely touching. As the movie progresses, Karen ends up laying across Matt’s lap. Matt’s got his head on Foggy’s shoulder, and Foggy has his head on top of Matt’s.

 

The movie fades into credits, and none of them really notice except Foggy who stops narrating. Karen takes the initiative - “Matt, truth or dare?”

 

It was bound to come down to it. “Dare,” he answers.

 

“Take your socks off with your teeth,” she says.

 

He does it with ease. “Contortionist,” Foggy says.

 

“Practice,” Matt retorts. “Foggy, truth or dare?”

 

“Truth.”

 

“Who do you hate? Also, why, if it’s not too personal.”

 

Foggy thinks for a moment of the most obvious answer, then flicks to a lighter one instead. “That professor - what was his name? Professor York! The one who had a grudge against me and -”

 

“Oh my god,  _ Professor York, _ ” Matt laughs. “The  _ trial. _ ”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“What happened?” Karen asks, sounding amused. Foggy can’t see her face, but.

 

“This professor had a grudge against me, so he tried to frame me for plagiarism.”

 

“Trouble was, he forgot I would get mad about it-”

 

“So when he tried to get me expelled-”

 

“I padlocked the doors and had him hold a trial-”

 

“ _ JUDGE BOBBLE- _ ”

 

“We used a bobblehead devil as our judge-”

 

“Our classmates as the jury-”   
  


“Fucking  _ fantastic-” _

 

“Matt finally gets to our real argument-”

 

“and he brings up the one point that could sink us-”

 

“I thought we were toast-”

 

“And Foggy got this  _ brilliant idea _ -”

 

“Not that smart, just situationally aware, not like  _ you  _ could see his handwriting-”

 

“Wins us the case, just like that.”

 

“That sounds insane,” Karen says, and she sounds like she’s smiling for the first time since Matt and Foggy got hurt. There’s a lull in the conversation, a quiet one, filled only with the sound of people occasionally crunching cold popcorn.

 

“Karen, truth or dare?” Foggy offers after a moment or two.

 

“Truth,” she says.

 

Foggy doesn’t know her as well as he knows Matt, so he tries for something easy. “What’s your family like?”

 

The answering silence tells him he’s stumbled into something he shouldn’t have touched. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t-”

 

“No, I should,” she says. She inhales, then exhales.

 

_ That worries me, Your Honor. _

 

“My mom was sweet. She always tried her best for the family, even when things got… rough. She held onto some hope, I guess, in a weird way. And my dad only wants the best for me, I know. He’s… an  _ asshole _ , I guess, but he’s… determined. And his asshole-ness is largely justified. My brother was. Sweet. He was a good brother.”

 

She doesn’t go into more detail, and Foggy doesn’t ask. She takes a long sip of the beer that’s made its way to the coffee table. “Truth or dare, Foggy?”

 

“Truth,” he says, to be fair to her.

 

“How far would you go with someone you’d just met that night?”

 

He pauses. “I don’t know. Matt’s more the type for one-night stands. I’m too awkward for that. Probably not past flirting.”

 

She raises her eyebrows, but concedes. Matt’s up next - “Karen, truth or dare?”

 

“Dare,” she says.

 

“I dare you to close your eyes for ten seconds.” 

 

She raises her eyebrows again, but shuts her eyes obligingly. Foggy watches as Matt ghosts his fingers by the back of her neck, just enough to make her giggle. “The  _ fuck, _ that tickles!”

 

He raises his eyebrows again. “Foggy, your move.”

 

“Matt, truth or dare?”

 

“Dare,” he says, because he’s a dick.

 

“I dare you to walk from one end of the room to the other on your hands,” he says. Usually that’s a safe one - people get to watch someone try and walk to the other end of the room, and if it fails it’s funny but if it works, that’s a new talent.

 

Matt makes a face, puts his hands on the floor, kicks off of the couch with both feet, and walks to the other wall just as leisurely as if he was walking with his feet. Foggy can’t help but watch as his hoodie hangs down, showing the bandages around his midsection. Matt springs off his hands, and lands on his feet.

 

“Done. Karen, your turn.”

 

Karen swallows, and Foggy wonders if he might have some competition here. 

 

\-----

 

They’ve made it through several rounds before Matt starts getting tired of doing dares (usually fruitless - he’ll do  _ anything, _ up to and including licking the floor, apparently.) Karen snaps at one point, “Matt, just pick  _ truth  _ and have it over and done with.”

 

“Okay, fine then. Truth.”

 

“What was your family like?” she fires at him, and Foggy winces.

 

“Mom, uh, fucked off before I was born, Dad got shot after, after winning a fight he’d, uh, he’d promised not to win because he was- he was in some, uh, some deep shit. No other relatives that weren’t, um, weren’t estranged. Gramps- Gramps was, wassa polarizing character ‘fore he, uh, went insane ‘n walked off the edge of the pier.” He takes a swig of beer. “Foggy, truth or dare?”

 

It might be worth mentioning at this point they are all more than a little bit tipsy.

 

“Truth,” he says.

 

“Who’s, who’s your crush?” Matt asks, like a fucking thirteen-year-old.

 

“You fucking thirteen-year-old,” Foggy says.

 

“Who’s your crush?” he repeats.

 

“Don’t have one,” Foggy lies, finishing his can of beer in one gulp and getting up for another.

 

“Foggy-”

 

“Don’t have one,” he says. 

 

“Foggy, I- I know you’re-”

 

“ _ No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of- _ ”

 

“Okay, I- I get it, uh, pleading the fifth. Whatever.”

 

“Karen, truth or dare?”

 

“Dare.”

 

“Air guitar concert, go.”

  
Karen does the requisite air guitar concert despite the lack of music. There is headbanging. Matt laughs till he cries.

 

“You can’t even see me, asshole.”

 

“We’ve, we’ve been over this. I can, I can hear you stumbling around like a drunk chicken, and that’s- that’s just as funny.”

 

“I amn’t drunk! I not. I am not. Fuck,” she laughs.

 

“Sounds drunk to me,” Foggy giggles, finding that he had somehow stolen Karen’s spot laying on Matt’s lap. He is not opposed to this. Matt is warm, and his hands are so-

 

Matt yelps. “Foggy take your- your  _ ice cold hands off my neck now- _ ”

 

Karen stumbles into the kitchen and Foggy hears the water running. “If you’re making your hands colder-”

 

“Nah, no, I’ve been drunk enough times that I know we’re gonna need this tomorrow,” Karen yells back.

 

The water is placed on the coffee table and Karen sprawls out on the floor. It occurs to Foggy that he hasn’t removed his hands from the back of Matt’s neck, effectively having made him hug Matt for roughly five minutes now. He removes them hurriedly, feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, and awkwardly sprawls across the floor, trying to keep weight off of his shoulder. 

 

“God, why did I come up with this idea,” he mutters aloud.

 

“Mmmm,” Matt says. “Wasn’, wasn’ that bad ‘n idea.” Karen makes an assenting noise.

 

Foggy doesn’t know what to say now, but the silence they fall into isn’t bad. It’s comforting, like a heavy blanket on a cold day.

 

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, really, but nobody else seems to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like dropping a comment, go ahead! Comments are my coffee ^v^  
> i swear i'll try to update within a Reasonable Timespan and not just like,,, a shit update after six months of s i l e n c e


	8. In Which Foggy Pines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever have one of those weeks where it feels like the world's falling down around you? My crush vanished from the face of the earth two days before Valentine's day, and then I got sick, and... you know how those weeks go? Well, I just had one. 
> 
> "Fuck it," I said. "Let's write some fanfic." And so I did.
> 
> As a side-note, if anyone finds my fic on Fanfic Pocket Archive or one of the other fanfic-stealing apps, can you let me know? Much obliged ^v^
> 
> I know this chapter's pretty tame and doesn't have much in the way of actual content, but lemme tell you I Have Some Shit Planned For Next Chapter. After all, this solidly puts us midway through S1E13: Daredevil, which means... well, what comes next? You tell me :)

Foggy wakes up the next morning bright and early. He immediately regrets it. 

 

Trying to block out the light streaming through his windows, he turns to face the other way and pulls a pillow over his head.  _ Oh, why did I have to be so broke I can’t afford curtains? _

 

The memories of the night before are foggy -  _ hah _ \- in returning to his head, but he vaguely remembers a glass of water and cold hands and Matt, his fucking… he doesn’t want to say  _ crush _ , but his crush, asking him who his crush was.

 

He didn’t remember his response, though.

 

…...That’s something he’s gonna have to deal with later, isn’t it?

 

Emphasis on  _ later. _ He’ll deal with it  _ later. _ For now, he does recall Karen putting a glass of water on the coffee table.

 

Once he’s had the water, he fills it up again for whoever wakes up next. Karen is asleep, curled tightly next to the couch like a cat; Matt is sprawled across the couch, the sun illuminating his face and the glasses half-hanging off his face, casting a rose-colored shadow across his cheeks. His jeans are hanging off one side of his hips, and the lines from where he’d laid on them set deep red grooves of fabric lines into his skin.

 

Foggy swallows down the lump that’s made itself present in his throat and goes to put on some clothes that aren’t pajamas. His shoulder aches, a dull pain that helps to pull him back into the present, and only gets more intense as he reaches up to pull another shirt over his head. He rolls it in a big circle, then a smaller circle - a technique they used to stretch before martial arts classes in Ms. Wing’s studio.

 

He runs through a form absently. It helps him steady his mind and his throbbing head, letting his breath match the movements. 

 

The morning is peaceful and still, yellow light coming into the room through the window. He goes to make a cup of coffee and lets the rich scent permeate the room. Throws away the cans of beer that litter the coffee table from their bad decisions. He glances down at his phone, too; there’s a new email he’s been waiting to see for a while. He smiles at it and shuts his phone off. It can wait.

 

The coffee ends up bitter but rich, and he stirs in cream and lets that take the bite away. It still leaves a bitter aftertaste, though.

 

There’s a mumble from the next room over. “Mmm, what time s’it?” 

 

He doesn’t actually know, but he casts his eyes over to the microwave, which helpfully informs him that it’s 11:18 in the morning. 

 

“11:20,” he returns. There’s a groan, a second of silence, and then the scrape of glass on the coffee table that tells him she’s had a drink of the water. A moment later, Karen walks into the room and pours herself a cup of coffee, rubbing at her eyes.

 

“It’s too early for this,” she says. Foggy makes an assenting noise.

 

“S’ too early to be aliiiive,” he replies. 

 

“Whazzat?” Matt says sleepily from the other room, and then, “Wait- Fog, the office-”

 

“It’s a Wednesday,” Foggy reminds him. “I think. We don’t have any clients. We don’t have any casework. I can just fly by and close up.”

 

“Please do not fly to the office,” Karen says. “I don’t mind if you get disbarred but don’t take Matt down with you.”

 

“I will walk to the office,” Foggy amends. “Feet. Sure do love, uh, walkin’ on em.”

 

“You hate walking places,” Matt says. “Where’s water?”

 

“Bathtub,” Foggy says, as Karen says, “In the sink.” Karen swats him. 

 

“Don’t be an asshole.”

 

“He knows I’m being an asshole. It’s not a big deal.” Matt passes by him to grab a glass and run it under the water from the sink. Foggy glances at him, trying not to be too overt with his ogling. Karen catches the stare anyway and shoots him a smug glance. He flushes and looks down at his lap. 

 

“I’ll just go walk over. It won’t take me a minute.” Matt decides.

 

“Okay,” Foggy concedes. “Please for the love of God do not tear your stitches. I know you were doing all sorts of acrobatics last night and I should absolutely not have encouraged that.”

 

“I’m fine. Nearly healed, anyway.”

 

“Bull.”

 

“Nope. Meditation. I keep telling you to try it, don’t I?”

 

“Yeah, in like, college. And you started by turning the thermostat in our dorm down to forty.”

 

“It helps, I’m telling you!”

  
“Bye, Murdock.”

 

Matt scoffs in amusement and pulls his hood up over his face, pushing his glasses onto his nose as he leaves. Karen’s the first to break the silence after the door shuts.

 

“So… hate to see him leave, love to watch him go, huh?”

 

“Shut up,” Foggy moans, burying his face in his hands. “Shut. Up.”

 

“First Amendment, Foggy,” Karen sing-songs, then stills.

 

“What’s up?” Foggy asks.

 

“It’s just… it seems impossible. That Fisk can own so much. It seems impossible to fight him. I mean, between the fact that he’s paid the news off not to report Urich’s death and the fact that he’s paid the police off not to catch his killer…”

 

“It does seem impossible, doesn’t it?” Foggy sighs, slumping into his chair. “But-”

 

“It’s just - how do you stop someone like that, someone who has so much?”

 

“It just means he has more to lose!” He tries for optimism. It seems, to him, to come out as sarcasm instead.

 

“He’s gonna find out what I did,” Karen says. 

 

“No.”

 

“He’s gonna find out, and he’s gonna come after me like he came after Ben.”

 

“Didn’t I promise you after Union Allied that we, me and Matt, we were gonna keep you safe? That hasn’t changed.”

 

“How?” Karen asks fiercely. “The last time you saw him, you both came tumbling onto my fire escape bloody and half-dead.”

 

“That wasn’t him. That was his lackey. Everyone that’s taken money from him, Karen, everyone that’s helped him tear this neighborhood to the ground… we’re going to do what we can. We’re going to see that they face justice. That’s what we do.”

 

Karen laughs, a sad sound. “Your optimism is infallible.”

 

“Trust me. We’ll take them down, and we’ll take Fisk down.” He sounds as optimistic as he can. Pours confidence and lawyer-ness into his voice, and luckily, Karen smiles. Then her face grows serious.

 

“Teach me how to fight.”

 

“What?” Foggy splutters.   
  


“Teach me. To fight. If you boys are going to do this vigilante thing you are not leaving me behind. Like, not let me be a vigilante, of course - I don’t have superpowers - but I want to learn. I want to be able to defend myself instead of hiding behind you guys.”

 

Foggy hesitates. He’s not really a good teacher, after all, but… she makes a good point. “I guess. I might have some spare hand wraps I can give you, or at least just teach you to throw a good punch. Want to see if Matt’s gym is open?”

 

“Matt has a gym?” Karen asks.

 

“Well, no. But he has a key to his dad’s old boxing place, and he’s allowed to come in after hours, and in return, he keeps the place safe and clean. He’s been teaching me there.”

 

“It’s, like, a Wednesday morning. Will it be open? Won’t there be people there?”

 

“Oh, right,” Foggy says. “I’d forgotten to factor in human existence.”

  
"Quote of the century, right there. You just summarized every politician in this century, I think.”

 

“Imagine that! Me, a politician. Yikes.”

 

“You’d never make it. You’re too much of a good person.”

 

“Aww, thanks, Kare. It’s okay, corruption isn’t really my brand of illegality anyway. I much prefer being an unregistered mutant and beating the shit out of rapists.”

 

“It’s a good look on you!” Karen says.

 

“I don’t think we can take down Fisk the same way,” says Matt from the entrance. He pulls the hood off of his head and shakes out his hair. “Beating the shit out of him, I mean.”

 

“Not with that armor he’s got on. We’d have to ask our tailor for weak spots, and he’s not gonna tell us.”

 

“Nope,” Matt says. He doesn’t pop the P like he usually does when he’s joking, though. Karen glances at Matt.

 

“What if we used the law?”

 

“What do you mean?” Matt says.

 

“She’s got a point,” Foggy speaks up. “It’d probably kill us to go after him normally. Or we’d fuck up and kill him, which…”

 

“Not ideal,” Matt agrees. “I think I’m going to pay Ellison a visit. Maybe he told Fisk off.”

 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Karen says. “But besides that, I mean.”

 

“Well, if we’re laying cards on the table,” Foggy says. “I got an email from Marci today.”

 

“Marci?” Matt asks. “What happened to her being a shark, you being shark food?”   
  


“Turns out I’m a convincing bit of shark food. Convinced her to copy over and send me files from L&Z.” 

 

Karen whoops. Matt gives him a rare smile that makes warmth spread across Foggy’s chest. “Whole bit of dealings of theirs with Fisk,” he continues, “and Owlsley at Silver and Brent.”

 

“She’s safe?” Matt asks, and he can see the concern in the tightness of his jaw.

 

“Yeah. We’re being careful. I asked a friend to swing by and check on her last night, and I’ll do it tonight to make sure. And she’s got a nest egg stashed that’ll keep her if she gets fired from L&Z - I’m sure she’s got another job lined up in the wings, or if all else fails we can take her on.”

 

Matt scoffs. “She’d never take us up on that one.” 

 

“Maybe not,” Foggy says.

 

“Tell you what,” Karen suggests. “I’ll work with Ellison. See if he’s a rat. You two, go talk to your buddy down at the 15th.”

 

Foggy whistles. “Mahoney’s gonna hate us.”

 

\-----

 

“Things are bad enough around here,” Sergeant Mahoney grouses. “Last thing I need is to be seen-  _ chumming it up _ with the enemy. Especially ones bringing cigars for my mom.” He gesticulates with the brown paper bag.

 

Foggy puts on his charming smile, and he knows Matt’s following suit behind his right shoulder. “Those are the good ones!”

 

“So all the other times you were buying cheap?” Brett cracks back.

 

“What do you mean by bad?” Matt asks. “What’s going on?”

 

Brett swallows, then glances around- left, then right, as if he’s worried someone’s listening in. “You heard about that warehouse fire?”

 

“That Chinese place?” Foggy asks, pretending he hadn’t had an integral role in its going up in flames. “Yeah, I know it. What about it?”

 

“Yeah, it turns out it was full of illegal immigrants and a shit-ton of heroin. Those masked dudes were there, too. The vigilantes. I had a run-in with them before leaving the scene”

 

Foggy furrows his eyebrows, pretending he’s never heard of this shocking bit of information before. “What happened?”

 

“Devil probably woulda beat me up if his partner the Angel hadn’t stepped in. But these guys, I dunno. What they said, it got me thinking.”

 

Foggy resists the urge to make a crack about how much that thinking must’ve hurt the good Sergeant and instead says, “I hear they’ve got that effect on people. Go on?”

 

“Working with Ben Urich,” Matt speaks up.

 

“How do you know that?” Brett asks, sounding incredulous. And suspicious. 

 

Foggy curses Matt’s flair for the dramatic. “We were working with him, too, on the same story.”

 

Matt goes and picks up the proverbial shovel Foggy just dropped in order to dig the proverbial hole a little deeper. “Where are you with that investigation? Any leads?”

 

“You know I can’t be talking to you about that,” Brett says coldly to Matt. Foggy exhales and gently nudges his foot.  _ Stop it. I got this. _

 

“The story Ben was working on was about Wilson Fisk,” Foggy says gently.

 

“Yeah. Devil-man says a buncha the cops in my precinct are in his pocket.”

 

“Do you believe him?” Foggy asks carefully.

 

“Well, it does make me wonder,” Brett says. “I wasn’t going to, but… something about them, man.”

 

“Ben found Fisk’s mom,” Foggy says. “Told him some things Fisk wouldn’t want out there.” 

 

“You think he killed him for it?” Brett sounds incredulous, and Foggy doesn’t blame him. It’s a crack theory, really. Foggy and Matt and Karen might be the only ones who really… understand why.

 

“All I’m saying is, the coroner’s makeup at Ben’s funeral looked pretty thick around his neck,” Foggy notes.

 

“Does it match up with anything you can’t tell us?” Matt asks.

 

“It’s weird. Forensics couldn’t pull a single print at the scene - not even Urich’s. His files, notebooks, hard drives - all wiped.”

 

“Fisk’s mom got the same treatment,” Foggy says. “She disappeared - no record of her at the care facility Ben found her at-”

 

He’s about to continue, but Matt places a warning hand on Foggy’s shoulder and he turns to find the door behind them has opened. A couple of policemen step out. “They’re looking for you inside, Sarge,” one says, giving the two lawyers a sidelong glance that screams suspicion. 

 

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Brett says, and the policeman that spoke puts his flip-phone back up to his ear. Turning back to Matt and Foggy, Brett adds in an undertone: “I’ve been gone not ten minutes and they’re already looking for me. I gotta get back.”

 

Noting Matt’s cocked head towards the officer that just talked to Brett, he tries to stall for time: “Anything else you can give us? Anything? We’re just looking for answers, Brett.”

 

“I’ve said what I can,” Brett admits. “They won’t tell me anything at the fifteenth. It’s like I’m part of the out crowd all of a sudden. I don’t like it, Nelson. It’s weird as shit.”

 

Foggy nods sympathetically. “Thanks anyway.”

 

“Your partner looks like he’s got his head in the clouds,” Brett adds, squinting at Matt.

 

“He’s really easily distracted, and I bet you the grief from the two funerals we’ve been to in the past couple weeks isn’t helping,” Foggy adds. Nothing like good old pathos to help him out, if he can wheedle anything else out of Brett.

 

Brett winces. “Sorry to hear that, man. The way things are going around here, honestly, I’m tempted to take an early pension. Move Momma somewhere warm.”

 

“It’d be a shame,” Foggy says earnestly. “You’re the only cop on the force we know for sure is honest.” He’s had a lot of time, with his “night shifts,” to learn the proper way to sound earnest without sounding like he’s trying to cajole information.

 

Brett raises his eyebrows. “Ever see  _ Serpico?  _ Honest cops are the ones who get shot in the face.” He turns and walks back inside, leaving the pair outside on the pavement. Foggy waits a moment for Matt to finish listening to whatever he was listening to, then lets Matt take his elbow. 

 

“It wasn’t completely a dead end,” Foggy says. “We know Brett’s being shut out of the social circle at the 15th. And that Fisk’s meticulous about crime scene cleanup.”

 

“No,” Matt agrees. “And the cop on the phone - I ran into him once on night shift.”

 

“He works for Fisk?” Foggy says, surprised.

 

“He was talking to someone about Hoffman - they’re looking for him.”

 

“Hoffman’s alive?” 

 

“Owlsley has him holed up somewhere. Fisk wants him found. Bad.”

 

“Of course! Hoffman could blow this whole thing wide open.”

 

“Only if we get to him first.”

 

“Suits or masks?” Foggy asks.

 

“Suits, for now.”

 

“Makes us sound like we’re in a spy movie!” Foggy says.

 

“I know,” Matt smiles. “It’s weird. In undergrad, I never thought this is what this would turn into. I knew you had superpowers of some sort, of course.”

 

“What?” Foggy asks. “How?”   


 

“Heard you fly onto the roof, like, almost every week.”

 

Foggy keeps walking, but pauses in talking before replying, “I was homesick. Same stars, you know?”

 

“Not really,” Matt says.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Though if I concentrate hard enough I can hear the cosmic background radiation.”

 

“What? Dude, that’s so cool!” Foggy exclaims. “Why the hell are you a lawyer! You could work for NASA, for fuck’s sake!”

 

“Not without revealing my powers,” Matt grins, and it takes Foggy a moment to recognize the mischief behind his smile.

 

“You  _ liar. _ You can’t hear that far, shitbag.”

 

“I wondered if you’d call me out.”

 

They walk back, keeping up the banter, but Foggy’s smile is bittersweet. Fuck, how had he not realized before that he was in love with Matt? Was this what real pining felt like, the kind from the trashy romance novels he'd loved in highschool? Was he just supposed to  _ live  _ like this? Was that what people  _ did? _ They just wandered around feeling like this and just living with it?

 

“Foggy?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You seem lost in thought. Everything okay?”

 

_ Jesus Christ, he was gonna have to live like this for possibly ever, of course he wasn’t okay! _ “Yeah, buddy. I’m okay.”


	9. In Which Foggy and Matt Do the Thing (No, Not That Thing)

“You know what doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out?” Foggy says, poring over papers with Karen and Matt. He drops his pen, rubs the bridge of his nose. His eyes burn from reading the tiny-text legalese in dim light.

 

“Do not say-” Matt starts, pausing his screen reader.

 

“Cold cuts! Italian meats. Cheeses. Why the fuck am I a lawyer again? Hell, even being a full-time vigilante is better than this.”

 

“You don’t get paid as a full-time vigilante,” Matt reminds him. “You became a lawyer for the money.” Foggy sighs- that’s fair enough. 

 

“Damn, I’m even working overtime to save the city and I’m not getting paid overtime hours? Where’s OSHA when you need it? My dreams of making money have been  _ dashed. _ ”

 

“Pretty sure we passed the barriers of OSHA a long, long time ago,” Karen points out, laughing dryly.

 

“I could be a butcher,” Foggy retorts. “I could be off running my own deli. Meats, cheeses, an apron with my name on it.”

 

“You finding anything?” Matt says. His eyes are crinkled and he’s smiling, genuinely smiling, and Foggy feels his heart beat infinitesimally faster.

 

“I mean, there’s thousands and thousands of papers here.” Karen pulls a hair tie off of her wrist and pulls her hair back- it’s falling in her face. “How’d Marci even get all this out of Landman & Zack without anyone noticing?”

 

“She’s good at distracting their employees,” Foggy deadpans. Karen chuckles.

 

“I bet,” Karen says. 

 

“Focus, guys. Anything relating to Silver & Brent. Liens, developments, property holdings, anything pointing to where Owlsley is holding Hoffman,” Matt reminds them.

 

Karen ticks off her fingers. “The corruptions. Bombings. Shot cops. Hoffman knows it all.”

 

“Could clear both of our names if Hoffman turns. Not just bring down Fisk - it’d erase the shadow of a doubt that the Kitchen still holds.”

 

“I hope he’ll go against Fisk when we find him.” Karen turns back to the papers, shuffles some around.

 

“The players of the underground here - there’s a lot of friction between them and Fisk. Russians got bombed. Yakuza’s underground after we disabled Nobu. Chinese heroin’s up in flames. Now it’s Owlsley’s turn.”

 

“You don’t get to be on top without making enemies looking to tear you down,” Karen says, and the room lapses into silence. Matt looks up, as though trying to make eye contact with her. Foggy flips the page on the contract he’s skimming. She adds, almost under her breath, “It’s just something Ben told me.”

 

“He’s right,” Matt says gently. “You don’t.”

 

“It could take us weeks to sift through all this,” Foggy points out, squinting at the text. “I mean, look at this shit. ‘ _ The Parties involved in the agreement shall not host a contractor or subcontractor contracting for the contractor or subcontractor-’ _ ” 

 

“It’s so dense,” Karen agrees. “And we don’t know if these records are complete.”

 

“How will we know that Owlsley’s using company funds to stash Hoffman?” Foggy asks.

 

Matt glances up, and he speaks calmly but with a voice radiating absolute confidence. “Owlsley is a man of financial privilege. I never met one that used his own money when he could use someone else’s.”

 

“I can call Marci-” Foggy starts, a half-formed idea of asking for help in his head.

 

“Wait,” Karen cuts him off. “Look at this - a rundown of the firm’s estate holdings. 187, across New York State.”

 

“I saw that,” Matt agrees.

 

“Yeah, but the next day it lists 186.”

 

“What if they liquidated a property?” Foggy asks.

 

“Well, I mean, that’s what I thought,” she says hurriedly, “but look-” She picks up another piece of paper. “The balance doesn’t change when the property disappears.” 

 

“Shouldn’t that reflect-” Matt starts.

 

“In the profit-losses,” Karen agrees. 

 

“Someone’s trying to hide it,” Matt muses quietly. His voice goes deep and Foggy’s breath hitches.  _ Shit, I’ve gotta hide this better.  _ “No shift in profit-loss, maybe nobody notices.” 

 

“Could be a clerical error,” Foggy admits. He doesn’t want to let his hopes get too high.

 

“What’s the property?” Matt asks.

 

“53rd and 10th.”

 

“Hell’s Kitchen,” both lawyers say. Matt gets up.

 

“Karen, can you hold down the fort?” he asks. “Foggy and I-”

 

“I know,” Karen says, a smile on her face as she looks up. “Do what you can. I’ll be waiting. Call me if you run into trouble.”

 

Foggy gets up, Matt unplugs his braille display and earbud, and both pull their jackets on.

 

“Good luck!” Karen calls after them as they hurry out.

 

The door swings shut behind them; Foggy grabs Matt and flies them down the stairs, too nervous to walk. “If ever there was a night to wear the new suits-”

 

“Not yet,” Matt warns. “Later. We need the element of surprise, and Fisk might’ve found Hoffman’s location first.”

 

Foggy doesn’t talk. Just soars over the city.

 

They encounter Fisk’s police just as they enter the courtyard where Hoffman’s sitting, armed with Owlsley’s men. The Angel lets the Devil fall, and starts disarming people one by one. He’s doing well, too - one gun drops, then another, then another, then-

 

“Angel!” 

 

He feels a dull pain spread across his jaw, and has the brief sense to think,  _ Fuck, _ before he’s out for the count.

 

\----

 

Matt doesn’t think he’s ever been so angry.

 

Foggy crumples in front of him, shock still in his heartbeat and blood on his lips, and Matt makes a feral, animalistic hiss _ ,  _ a primal sound from deep in his throat, edging on growl territory. He knocks the guy he’s fighting out in a single punch and the others back away warily. 

 

One raises his gun to fire a shot and Matt’s upon him in a flash, not even thinking about what he’s doing- just working on muscle memory. Grab grip of the gun. Step into the attacker’s space, twist gun out of hand, use it to pistol-whip attacker. Throw it at another.  _ Is Foggy- is he- Foggy- Foggy- Foggy. _

 

He’s breathing hard by the end of the fight, anger still bubbling in his veins, but the sight of Foggy stirring snaps him out of it. “Angel,” he says, kneeling. “Angel. Are you okay?” 

 

“Hurts like a sonuvabitch,” Foggy says, working his jaw. “But I’m fine. Hoffman?”

 

Matt stands and approaches the man in the chair, who’s trembling and shaking. He can smell salt on his face - either sweat or tears or maybe both, probably cutting trails through what tastes like dirt. Keeping his face carefully angled towards Hoffman, he sits in the opposing chair. 

 

“You have an opportunity here, Detective,” he says carefully, in a near-growl. He knows that’s what his voice sounds like when he gets furious. He knows it’s not a range he should use. He is, however, almost pleased to hear Foggy’s breath hitch at the sound. “Turn the evidence on Fisk. Set things right. If not, sit here. Play cards against yourself until Fisk sends more men to kill you.”

 

He tastes Hoffman’s fear as it rankles the air. “Decide,” he says, in what was supposed to be a whisper but was definitely a growl.

 

“It won’t make a difference,” Hoffman sobs. “He owns the cops. I’ll be dead before I can testify-”

 

“Not all of them,” Foggy says. He’s standing at Matt’s shoulder, and Matt didn’t even notice. He somehow doesn’t jump, though. “Turn yourself in to Brett Mahoney. You can trust him. He knows lawyers who can’t be bought- they’ll help you. There are always good people in the city, Mahoney.”

 

“Thanks for the tip,” Hoffman says and stands. Matt lunges across the table, knocks it over, catches him neatly in the mouth with his knuckles. Hoffman falls backward. Foggy moves forwards, as if to stop him, and Matt stands down.

 

“I’ll be following you the whole way to the precinct,” he warns. “Get there alive, or you’ll wish I hadn’t saved you from the bullets.”

 

Foggy slings an arm around his shoulder and the other around his waist and picks him up like he weighs nothing.

 

It never stops secretly delighting him.

 

\-----

 

They sit on the top of the 15th precinct as Hoffman walks in. Matt’s got his head cocked, and Foggy assumes he’s listening to the goings-ons inside. 

 

“Karen’s gonna get a call in a couple minutes,” Matt says, breaking the silence. 

 

“We should head back,” Foggy agrees. He can feel the welt forming on the corner of his jaw, where it meets his neck. It almost hurts to talk. He makes no effort to get up.

 

“The cops inside aren’t happy. Bunch of angry workers in a hive of bees.” 

 

“Of course not,” Foggy says. “Their paychecks are going away.” The fall air is cool against his skin; it pulls at his tattered wings, letting them shift gently in the wind. 

 

“We’ve done good work,” Matt reminds him. “We’re making the city better.”

 

“It’s like it never ends,” Foggy says quietly, trying to keep his words as un-enunciated as possible. “It just feels like as soon as we eliminate one threat, another one takes its place. You know Ms. Wing has been giving me lessons almost daily? Trying to teach me as much as she can? She worries about me.”

 

“I worry about you, Foggy,” Matt says. It sounds, to Foggy, like a confession.

 

\-----

 

Twenty minutes later, they’re sitting inside the building they were just on top of. Karen’s next to them, keeping a careful eye.

 

“As we stated on the phone,” Matt starts calmly, “our client is willing to be placed into protective custody and waive all considerations for immunity.”

 

“In exchange for what?” The assistant District Attorney on the other side of the table sounds suspicious at best. 

 

“Nothing,” Matt says. Foggy’s grateful for him; he’d cottoned on to the pain in Foggy’s jaw and was willing to take the lead. “Detective Hoffman regrets his involvement in Wilson Fisk’s criminal enterprise and seeks only to unburden himself in the eyes of God and the state of New York.” A moment’s pause; he prompts Hoffman. “Detective?”

 

“I’ve taken money, a lot of money,” Hoffman says, voice thin and trembling, “to do things for…” He swallows visibly. “For Fisk. I’m not the only one.” His voice seems to get stronger, a crescendo- “There’s cops. Lawyers, judges. At least one senator that I know of.”

 

“Start from the beginning,” the ADA commands. “Names. Dates. I want it all.” 

 

Hoffman starts talking, and Karen shoots them both a smile. Matt returns it, then turns the full force of the patented Murdock-victory-smirk on Foggy, and he can’t keep from smiling back.

 

The interrogation- sorry, statement- ends. Half the cops are walked out in handcuffs by FBI agents, and Karen reports as they walk out that one of Ellison’s coworkers is arrested, not to mention Senator Cheryl and much of the staff of L&Z. 

 

Wilson Fisk is arrested, and Matt and Foggy suit up in the new suits.

 

“You boys look a sight,” Karen grins, as she stands in Matt’s apartment for the second time. “All suited up and ready to go save the world.”

 

“We’re not saving the world,” Matt reminds her. “Just the Kitchen.”

 

“I feel like it’s the first day of school. Should I take pictures? Put them on Facebook?”   
  
“Better not,” Matt says, with a warm smile.

 

“The horns look adorable,” Foggy adds. He’s got a bandage around his jaw now, acetaminophen in his system. Most of the pain’s disappeared.

 

“Thanks, Fog.”

 

“You look ready to headbutt someone,  _ toro rojo. _ And Foggy- your wings are a work of art. Give my compliments to the tailor.”

 

Foggy grins, and his jaw hurts from it despite the painkillers.

 

“All right, time to get to work,” Matt says.

 

“Get out there and go save people.” Karen gives each of them a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be watching the news. Come back safe so we can have a round together. On me.”

 

“Thanks, Karen,” Foggy says, and with that, he flies over to the roof access door and pulls Matt up the stairs and out into the open night.

 

It’s not quiet by any means- there are sirens. Clamoring reporters. He glances down nervously at the other vigilante. “Doing okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Matt says. “Let’s do this.”

 

He drops Matt and they take Matt’s method of transport this time; leaping from building to building with reckless abandon, bouncing off rooftops and slipping under clotheslines. It’s exhilarating. Matt does a handspring off of a fire escape. Foggy’s learned to do a flip, and he’s having entirely too much fun doing them.

 

He loves being a vigilante. He loves his powers, for the first time ever. He loves his life and his friends and his shitty law firm. He loves his neighborhood- the sights and smells and sounds of the city, the wind rushing past his face, using his brand-new bo staff as a makeshift vaulting pole.

 

He’s in love with Matt.

 

The caravan below them grinds to a halt.

 

“Go time,” Matt mutters.

 

“Not yet,” Foggy warns, and he’s surprised that he does. Maybe he’s graduating from being a sidekick. Maybe he can be Matt’s partner in vigilantism if not in romance. “The FBI’s as likely to shoot at us as they are to shoot at Fisk.”

 

The firefight starts, and Matt tenses. They’re sitting still now, crouched next to one another atop a roof by the fight. Matt’s armor glints red in the light. “They’re dying,” Matt murmurs.

 

“I know,” Foggy says, gritting his teeth. “We can’t yet. We’ll die if we go into that fray. You’re fantastic at fighting, but you’re not dodge-bullets-between-the-FBI-and-police-force good.”

 

Matt tenses even further as Fisk emerges from his van, untouched by any bullet. He sweeps through the firefight- black coat swirling in his footsteps. He gets into another van and issues a warning.

 

“If anyone tries to follow,” Matt repeats quietly, “on the ground or in the air, take them out.” He turns his head towards Foggy. “We need to-”

 

“Wait,” Foggy urges. “Bide our time. We can’t do anything now.”

 

“What are you proposing?” Matt spits. “Do something when they get to the airport?” He cocks his head, then gets to his feet abruptly. Foggy follows.

 

“Woah, woah-”

 

Matt shushes him a moment, head still cocked. He pulls his helmet off, and Foggy knows he’s listening. He breathes shallower.

 

Then Matt takes off like a bullet across the rooftops, and Foggy leaps into the air; he knows he can’t follow on foot. Matt’s a hound after a scent, and Foggy doesn’t know how to feel about it. The Devil’s a lone soldier, but the Angel needs the pair to be together, after all. 

 

Matt looks up, and Foggy knows he’s needed, too.

 

They find Fisk at a warehouse. Both observe as he’s transferred into a van, and this time Foggy’s first to take off like a shot after it. The suit is flexible where he needs it to be, and he blends in with the night sky. 

 

They’re going through a tight corner when Matt catches up with Foggy. “The next street is deserted,” he says. Foggy slows.

 

“It’s go time, then,” Foggy says, and lifts Matt up. He’s stronger now. He knows what he can do, how to use the air to make Matt feel like he’s nothing. 

 

Matt flings one baton at the windshield. It cracks; the van topples.

 

The Devil and Angel drop out of the sky, landing with a series of thuds on the roof of the truck as Fisk stumbles out of it. The Angel holds his staff in both hands, across his body, in the standard “ready” position his sensei had taught him; the Devil poises himself like a cobra about to strike, in his sensei’s position.

 

“You were right,” Matthew Murdock growls, “what you told me in that warehouse. Not everyone deserves a happy ending.”

 

Franklin Nelson hisses, “Your high horse isn’t going to hold you any longer.” The tone scrapes at his throat but it feels good to be intimidating for once. 

 

“You?” Fisk says, and it sounds incredulous. 

 

Matt shoves Foggy off the truck as the gunfire shoots through the roof; Foggy catches himself midair in time to watch his other half complete a series of complex footwork that wouldn’t look out of place in an Olympic skating routine. Foggy blocks the gunfire with his wings and bends the staff to hit the guy from around the corner of the truck. The gun goes silent as he feels the end connect, and he pulls it back.

 

Matt’s on Fisk’s tail. Foggy flies after him, and lands where Fisk was about to run. “You can’t escape.”

 

“We won’t let you,” says Matt from the other end of the alleyway.

 

Fisk looks back and forth between the two, raising his hands to his face and panting. “I wanted to make this city something great. Something better than what it is. Something beautiful! You took everything from me! You took my dream! You took my reputation! I’m gonna kill you!”

 

“Creative,” Foggy deadpans. “It’s not even a city, it’s like, a tiny neighborhood, not even a square mile-”

 

Matt comes up behind Fisk and hooks his arm around his neck, straining for a minute before knocking him out cold.

 

“You ruined his monologue,” Matt says.

 

“It was a pretty shitty monologue,” Foggy points out.

 

“I was gonna show off to him.”

 

“You can show off to me. I’ll be party to your weird alpha-asserting-dominance-vigilante ritual.”

 

“It’s not a weird alpha-asserting-dominance-vigilante-ritual. It’s me fighting a murderer.”

 

“You’d prefer a drawn-out, three-minute fight?”

 

“Well, no, but-”

 

“Then what’s the problem?”

 

Matt smiles, then cocks his head. “Police are gonna be here in ten seconds. It’s Mahoney.”

 

“Let’s let them see us. Maybe we’ll make headlines in the Bulletin,” Foggy says. He’s feeling daring; he’s hyped on adrenaline. 

 

And sure enough- “Police! Put your hands up!” 

 

Both glanced up, as if only now noticing the flashing lights.

 

“I told you before, Sergeant,” Foggy says. “we’re not the bad guys.”

 

“Holy shit, it’s you two,” Brett says, raising his head from his shoulder. Foggy bites his lip to hide the grin.  _ Damn straight, Brett Mahoney. What’s Bess gonna say now, huh? _

“This man was a fugitive from the law,” Matt says. “We stopped him. Are we good?”

 

Brett doesn’t take his eyes off the pair, only leans into his communicator. “Fifteen Sergeant Central. Be advised, Wilson Fisk under K, north alley four-six and ten.”

 

Crackling comes from the comm, and Brett lifts his head. “You’re good, boys.”

 

They stand aside as Brett cuffs Fisk. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Matt rasps.

 

“Hey, so what am I supposed to call you two when I file my report?”

 

They’re already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapters gonna be the last one probably maybe and maybe that'll end up coming to some fruition??? ;D there might be some... resolution??? ;DDDD
> 
> i had a bad case of purple prose halfway thru this chapter and im sorry about that :p
> 
> also, it just occurred to me halfway thru writing this that back in the hospital scenes, they should probably have been in sinai west instead of metro general. thats on me for not knowing what the fuck a "new york" is im sorry
> 
> pls leave kudos/comments, they are as always my caffeine!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to what was gonna be a drabble but... aw, hell, I'm not good at writing short fics. Sue me.
> 
> Anyway, as of yet I only know of two other Vigilante!Foggy fics out there and I really wanted there to be more. Be the change you want to see in the world, kids.


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